Gray
by hiholly123
Summary: Kilgrave doesn't remember. Jessica doesn't know what to do. The Doctor is afraid of what the future holds. (TWs in the first AN)
1. Chapter 1

**AN: Hey everyone, guess whooooo?**

 **I've been working on this story for months now, and I'm actually nearly done! So far, I have about 15 chapters written, with several more yet to be added. I think this is shaping up to be one of the longest, if not the longest, story I've written! It's been such an adventure so far, and I've really grown as a writer and explored some of what I can do with this story.**

 **I'm so glad I can finally share it with you!**

 **But, onto the details:**

 **This story will be very heavy in the character-exploration department. There is, of course, plot, but this story originated out of a desire to explore the characters' interactions in an incredibly complicated, morally-gray situation, so that is the forefront of everything.**

 **This takes place after the first season of Jessica Jones. And for Doctor Who, this is shortly before Ten's finale. So, you know. Fun stuff.**

 **TRIGGER WARNING : there are no real graphic depictions of rape in this story, but it is mentioned. There is also some non-violent self-harm, of the denying-self-things-necessary-to-life variety, and one scene later on that is pretty dark (although the events are accidental and the actions well-meaning). If any of you, for any reason, want me to tag a specific section, or want me to give some kind of discreet warning in advance of any potentially triggering material for you, please don't hesitate to leave a comment or shoot me a PM! Just let me know the kinds of things you want to be warned about, and I'll do my best to help you out! This story is also just fairly dark in general, hence the rating. Let me know if you have any questions or concerns!**

 **Without further ado...!**

* * *

 **Chapter 1**

For the first time in what seemed like a lifetime, Jessica Jones was content.

Or, near enough that she could almost mistake it for content. It would have been an outright lie to say everything was perfect, or even that all was right in the world - there would always be assholes, and since it was her job to stop them, she saw the dark underbelly of humanity more than most. Enough to have a reminder of that darkness follow her in even her happiest moments.

But things were good. Better than they had been in a long time.

Her apartment was slowly being fixed, despite her insistences that Trish stay out of it. At least the walls had been repaired, and the window of her door had been replaced. The rest was mostly up to her - cleaning up, throwing out, buying what needed to be bought. Business was booming more than ever, though, so it was hardly an ordeal. It was more the chore of it all that weighed on her. But that was a small price to pay, all things considered.

Life had become both more chaotic and stable at the same time, but she couldn't say she wasn't at least somewhat pleased with it all in the end.

She would forget sometimes, as she moved on with her life, that she was finally free. The ghost that had been haunting her for so long had finally been vanquished, and everything she had left - everyone she had left - was safe, at least for the moment. Kilgrave was dead. She had made sure of that. And yet it would still sneak up on her, this realization.

She would find herself looking over her shoulder, on occasion, waiting for something, that familiar old terror welling up in her, before she remembered.

And, God, she couldn't get over how much brighter the world seemed afterwards, before she forgot again. It was the gift that kept on giving - over and over and over...freedom.

She would never have to so much as lay eyes on him again.

With her camera held close, and nothing but work on her mind, Jessica found herself once again hiding on a fire escape in the cold, snapping photos of a married man and his mistress for one of her new clients. It was a promising job, if a little basic compared to most of her work now, offering a nice reward for her hard work.

Despite knowing that her client would surely be devastated by the evidence, she couldn't hold back her cheer as she took picture after picture, then slipped down and away, stuffing her camera back in her bag as she went.

She traded it for her phone, tapping in the client's number and pressing it to her ear. Two rings, and the woman was frantically whispering, "Hello?"

"I've got 'im," Jessica said shortly, tone betraying none of the satisfaction swirling in her chest.

"Oh," the woman breathed. "Oh, I...thank you."

"I'm sorry, for what it's worth," the PI replied. This time it came out slightly more sincere. "Stop by my office tomorrow morning and I can give you the pictures."

On the other end, she heard a sniffle. "Um. Yes, I'll be there. After Henry," another sniffle, "goes to work."

Her phone buzzed, indicating another call, and she managed to be polite and say goodbye before hanging up and answering again. "Trish?" She paused at a crossing, waiting for the cars to clear before jogging across.

"Hey, meet me at that bar - you know the one we used to go to all the time?" Jessica immediately caught the slight slur in Trish's voice, and rolled her eyes.

"Are you drunk?"

"Maybe," Trish sighed. "Tipsy, at minimum. But look, I want you here. I came with a couple of friends, but-"

"I know how celebrity types are," Jessica finished for her. "Doesn't mean I'm willing to drag your ass home for you tonight. I'm busy. Stop drinking and go home. I thought you didn't do that much anymore, anyway."

"It's been a long day," the other woman mumbled. "I was headed out with some people I interviewed today, that's all. It's only been a few drinks. Please, Jess? I've barely seen you the past few weeks anyway."

"Like I said, I'm busy." There must have been something in her voice, though, because Trish continued, with something like a knowing smile in her voice.

"So when will you be here?"

Jessica groaned, but secretly, she was a little bit relieved. The only bad thing about not having your life and the lives of those you loved on the line was that you had a lot more time to think about other people - something Jessica had never been particularly good at.

And a few of her recent cases...well, she deserved a break from thinking about it.

 _Give me ten minutes_. The words were right there, on the tip of her tongue. She had even opened her mouth, skillfully holding back a resigned smile, one of those unexpected new bubbles of contentment expanding in her chest, before it all went to shit.

She saw the hair, and the suit, and the bubble popped. At first she thought it was another one of those moments - where she thought she saw him on the sidewalk, and her whole world stopped spinning, before she realized _no, look at his nose. Look at the shape of his face, his jaw, his eyes,_ and she moved on, feeling shaken and foolish and absurdly relieved - before he passed under a light and his face was illuminated.

Everything wrenched to a stop, so violently she felt that maybe for a moment New York City had frozen in place around her.

But someone, one of the few still on this street at this hour, barely missed toppling her over as he passed, spitting a mumbled curse in her direction.

Across the street, Kilgrave paused at the crossing, hands shoved in the pockets of a dark brown pinstripe suit, rocking back and forth on once-white converse sneakers, the trench coat he wore swaying with him.

 _This is a dream_ , she thought, idiotically. _He would never wear clothes like that - definitely not the shoes, dear_ God _._ But those sharp features were unmistakable, and the eyes - there was no way in hell she could forget those eyes.

Somehow, he was alive.

Somehow, her freedom had been stolen from her again, and it had taken no longer than a single breath.

"Jess?" Trish said, in a way that indicated it wasn't the first time that she'd spoken. "Jessica."

"Trish," she replied. Her mouth was deathly dry. When she swallowed, it felt like swallowing gravel. "I need you to tell me I'm going crazy right now."

"What's going on, you weren't answering." The slur had vanished, replaced only with alarm.

Once the words were said, they couldn't be escaped.

"Right now," she said, carefully, "I'm looking at Kilgrave, crossing the street towards me."

"Jesus," Trish breathed. "Listen, I'm...are you sure you aren't imagining it? Have _you_ been drinking?"

Jessica huffed, trying to regain her composure, scrubbing a hand quickly over her face, ducking into the nearest alley she could find. "I don't think he saw me. Tell me I'm going crazy." She didn't want to call it begging, but it sounded pretty damn close.

"Jess..."

"It's _him_ , Trish." She could hear the panic, panic she hadn't felt for months, welling back up in her voice, panic she'd learned a long time ago to keep down, locked away. Personal.

But she was out of practice.

"Where are you?"

"I have to go after him," was all she replied. "Shit. Shit, shit, shit." Her heart had, at some point, crept up into her throat.

She could feel, even across the phone, that Trish wanted to beg her not to, to reassure her.

All she said, however, was, "Take another look. Make sure."

Jessica clawed at her flask, taking a swig, feeling the burn down her throat. She focused on it as she edged out of the alley to catch a glimpse.

He was still a fair distance away, far enough to take no notice of her. She held her breath, hoping.

Her world froze yet again as her last dregs of hope were wrenched away.

She backed further into her hiding place. Her hands were shaking. Her eyes burned. "I'm sure."

"Shit," Trish said. "Okay, okay - don't hang up. Stay with me, okay. I'm sure it's just..."

"Nothing?" Jessica spat. "I would know that face anywhere, Trish. _Anywhere_." She couldn't help the shudder that stole through her, had to force dark images from her mind in order to breathe. "Goddammit."

Trish didn't say anything more, but Jessica could hear her breathing, the background noise of the bar, the small sounds of the world still moving on, as it always did.

He passed the alley without so much as looking in her direction. Hands in his pockets, strolling along without a care in the world.

Sometimes she forgot, now that things had started to look up, how much she had despised him.

She slipped out of her shelter a few moments behind him, keeping a close eye while remaining at an inconspicuous distance. The situation wasn't ideal - for multiple reasons, but mostly because she had practically no one else to hide behind should he turn around. Most people knew to stay indoors in Hell's Kitchen at night.

Of course, he wouldn't worry about that kind of thing.

She tailed him for what felt like ages, but was in actuality probably only half an hour at most. The wind had begun to cut into her like it hadn't earlier, when things had been okay. It felt like ice, chipping into her with every gust, which didn't help with her growing weariness. He just kept crossing streets, going down odd roads - it felt more like he was wandering aimlessly than actually searching for anything.

Finally, however, she watched him turn into a side street she knew lead only into an alley, and found her opening.

"Trish," she said. On the other end of the line, which had been quiet throughout her journey, her friend replied with a brief, "I'm here."

"There's a tracer on my phone. It'll alert you to my location if I haven't called you back in an hour. Don't call, just keep track of me, okay? Get Luke. And anyone else you have to." She took a breath. "I'm coming up on him now." She hung up, slipping the phone back into her pocket with sweaty palms. She clenched her fists and stomped forward.

She had no idea what she would do. She had no plan, not even a hint of a plan.

She rounded the corner, and found him there, watching her.

"Did you think I wouldn't notice you following me?" he asked, and that accent - terrible, slimy enough to curl her lip - sealed the deal.

It was him.

"Fuck you," she spat, without thinking, the words like fire and hate and terror on her tongue, and lunged forward.

"Whoa!" he called, and ducked out of the way, narrowly avoiding her advances. "Excuse me!" She turned to catch sight of him again - his hands were up in surrender, backed against the wall, seeming offended but not surprised. "I usually introduce myself before I go attacking people, it's only polite."

"Don't play dumb with me, asshole," she snarled. She watched his eyes flicker momentarily over her as she took a warning step closer. "How did you survive?"

His brow wrinkled, almost comically. That hatred, so vile and familiar, crawled its way through her body. "I genuinely have no idea what you're talking about," he told her. "Which, I have to say, doesn't happen often. Well, occasionally. Well, maybe a little more frequently than that. But I do find out eventually, doesn't usually take long. I'm having a hard time with this, though - sorry, I'm being rude. What's your name?"

She stared, forcing herself to look closer. He was Kilgrave, of that there was no doubt. But his eyes, those eyes she had been running from for far too long, were full of _real_ uncertainty. Real confusion. "No," she hissed, "we aren't doing this again." She took a deep breath, to calm her racing heart.

"I guess I'm in no position to argue," he said.

"I'm going to find out what happened to you," she growled, "or, more likely, what you _did_ to make this happen. And when I do, you'll be in deep shit." Jessica felt the sting of her nails in her palms, and forced herself to relax minutely.

He quirked an eyebrow at her, and _oh_ , he couldn't fool her. Trying to be charming, like he always had. "So you _do_ believe me?" he checked. Then he glanced down at her feet and frowned.

"Probably not," she admitted. Then, having shifted ever so slightly closer to him throughout, grabbed him by the hair and bashed his head against the wall with a satisfying _thud_.

* * *

 **AN: Short first chapter, but I promise the rest of them are much, much longer!**

 **Please, as usual, let me know what you think so far. About plot, writing, characterization, any of it at all. It's not too late for me to change things and improve the story, so I'd dearly appreciate any feedback you can give!**

 **I'm planning to update weekly. I'm thinking Monday nights. Updates should be much more regular than I've been known for in the past, because all but the last several chapters are written, and I plan to finish those within the next few weeks. However, if I have to do any major overhauls of the story (which I don't expect to, but in rereading and editing I may find some things that need changing), updates may be delayed.**

 **I'm also a college student, with a somewhat intense major, and with a part-time job that eats up 20 hours of my time a week. I may have to begin posting bi-weekly instead in the future, but for now let's feel it out and see how things go!**

 **Thanks, everyone!**


	2. Chapter 2

**AN: Look, I'm back! And on time? What kind of alternate universe are we living in? (Really, though I want to know. What do I have to do in order to leave?)**

 **Welcome to Chapter 2! Thanks to everyone who read the first chapter, and everyone who followed and already favorited! I love and appreciate you all, and I hope you enjoy this next installation!**

* * *

 **Chapter 2**

The Doctor wasn't aware of much for what felt like a long while.

His time sense was scrambled - that was the first thing he noticed. He couldn't tell how long he'd been floating in nothingness, or even how long it had been since he became aware of the nothingness at all.

The next thing he knew was a faint pain, that grew and grew and grew over a relatively short span of time. It started off not too horrible, but quickly blossomed into a stomach-churning ache that he couldn't rid himself of. Quickly after the pain came the sense of lying on something. It was _not_ comfortable, he knew that much, but the rest eluded him. It faded in and out - a bad mobile phone connection, or radio signal. He realized he couldn't feel the TARDIS anymore either, not properly anyway. She was only the faintest of concerned hums at the very back of his mind. If he didn't pay attention, it was hard to even notice her.

It seemed to last an age - just lying there, hurting, unsure of when or where he was. Finally, however, he breached the surface of consciousness, ever so slowly, like the rising of a tide.

He was lying on his stomach on something flat, and hard - a tile floor, probably. And he was cold, cause yet to be determined. And his head - yes, a head injury, there it was. Right at the back, nasty place. It pulsed along with his hearts, a painful rhythm to draw him further into the land of the living.

His hands and feet were tied, hands pinned almost painfully behind him. Rope, he guessed, pulling at the restraints drowsily. And someone had slapped tape over his mouth, too. Lovely.

Then he detected a voice, nearby. Through the wall, he thought, of whatever room he was trapped in. It was a little too muffled to understand properly, but he got a few words, and a slight bit of information - it was a woman, no, two, both agitated, arguing with one another. He picked up the phrase, "kill grave," a couple of times, and a name, repeated - "Jess."

The Doctor summoned the will to open his eyes, but he wasn't rewarded with much. He found mostly darkness, with a small line of yellowish light shining through the bottom of what had to be a door. He squinted, tried to gather something, anything, from this information, and found it all lacking. Part of it, he supposed, was probably do to his pounding head. His time sense wasn't the only thing all out of order - complex thoughts slipped out of his grasp like sand.

He squirmed onto his back and pushed up into a sitting position, only to be greeted by a swell of dizziness. He would have complained about it, if not for the tape.

As it was, he contented himself with an unhappy grumble, and waited for it to pass. Of course, no such luck. It was soon clear to him that he would just have to deal with it and move on if he wanted to figure out what had happened.

The last thing he recalled with any clarity was noticing the woman following him. He hadn't been too bothered by it, mostly - it was easy enough to escape any unwanted tails with the TARDIS, after all, and in any case he had had other concerns. She wasn't getting any closer, anyway, so he had ignored her for the most part. Until, that is, he noticed her cell phone about fifteen minutes later. That just spelled trouble.

So he had searched out some way to lose her before he reached the TARDIS. Even the most grimy, dimly lit side streets didn't phase her, however, and she had continued to go after him despite his best efforts.

To be fair, though, he hadn't exactly been at his most put-together.

As an oh-so-thoughtful reminder of this, his stomach made a thunderous grumbling noise.

Yes, he remembered. It had been almost two full weeks since he had consumed anything other than tea and the occasional chip. Or maybe three. He had stopped keeping track after a while.

And he remembered the exhaustion that had weighed him down, so overwhelming it had left him unforgivably foggy. It had allowed the woman to sneak up without him noticing. Not until it was already too late, anyway.

He had just wanted a quiet walk - not something he often desired, but with things as they had been lately...he'd had a lot to think about.

Feeling the tendrils of that old, terrible darkness pulling at him again, he shrugged out of their grip and forced himself to pay attention to the present.

The voices had stopped.

 _Oh, brilliant_ , he sighed internally. Then, footsteps, loud and clunky and angry. He watched the light underneath the door, tensed when twin shadows appeared to block it.

Light flooded the room, blinding him.

* * *

"If that man is not Kilgrave, and you've locked some innocent guy in your closet..." Trish couldn't even finish the sentence, her false anger fizzling out within seconds. She just shook her head, and closed the front door behind her.

"I _really_ hope it is just some guy," Jessica sighed, turning away to grab for a bottle on her desk. "Getting arrested is peachy compared to the alternative."

Trish sighed, mostly to settle her hammering heartbeat. "Jess..."

The PI slid into her office chair, taking a mouthful of liquor. She slammed the bottle back down and shook her head. "There's not anything more to say," she growled. Trish had forgotten how much it hurt to see her so tortured. "Either it's not Kilgrave, and we deal with the fallout, or it is, and we take care of it." Her dark eyes were ablaze.

"Should I call anyone else?" Trish suggested. "Luke...?"

"I still have that tracer," Jessica reminded her.

"He knows?"

"Not about this," another drink, "but about the tracer, yeah. It'll send him an alert automatically within the hour if I don't turn it off."

Trish nodded, closed her eyes for a moment to gather herself. "Worst case scenario," she proposed. "Who are we getting involved?"

"As few people as possible," Jessica quipped immediately.

"I know. But _who_?" She sighed again. "I need to know who to call. If it comes down to that. We don't want to fuck around with this. We'll need all the time we can get."

Another drink. "I know, I know." Jessica moved to rub at her eyes, then froze. "Did you hear that?"

Trish's already racing heart went into overdrive. "No."

"I think he's awake," Jess murmured. "And hungry, from the sound of it."

"Leverage?" Trish suggested, though how she managed that with her heart in her throat she wasn't sure.

Jessica met her eyes gravely, then stood, not bothering to seal her bottle. Trish followed her the five foot distance to the cramped utility closet by the bathroom. Everything in it had been removed, of course, to give their prisoner no weapons to his advantage, but still, it had to be pretty tight in there. Only barely enough room to lie down in straight across.

Jessica reached for the handle, looked at Trish one more time, then flung the door wide open.

It was him.

Blinking, squinting, backed into the far corner of the closet, bound and bruised and obviously confounded, but definitely him.

Bile rose in Trish's throat, and she had to close her eyes to keep from retching.

She remembered suddenly, more vividly than she had in at least two months, the feel of him in her head. Kissing him, screaming in the deepest, darkest part of her mind, the part that was still her. The creeping tentacles of his control feeding their way inside her, dragging her will away.

She reopened her eyes, fury rushing into her veins, setting her aflame, and she stared him down.

He met her eyes, and yes, his were the same deep brown she had been running from since their first interaction. The same that Jess had been running from for so much longer. The exact same shade, and shape, and size.

It was him.

He said something upon seeing her, but with the duct tape over his mouth it was impossible to tell. Whatever it was, however fruitless the action, it made her anger all the more powerful.

"Hungry?" Jessica mocked.

Trish expected Kilgrave to glare at her, enraged and insane, but instead he only looked harmlessly up at them, gaze flicking back and forth, and shrugged.

"There's no point in being tough about it," Jessica went on, although Trish could tell she was slightly rattled herself. "I heard you."

Kilgrave tried to speak again, then stopped mid-sentence, his brow furrowing.

"Hungry or not," Jessica said, "know that it's only gonna get worse from here on out."

He stared at them, unwavering. Every time he looked at Trish, she felt a rush of nausea, but she stood her ground, though her knees had begun to feel weak.

"When we come back we'll be ready for answers," Jessica warned him. He shrugged again, and went cross-eyed to look at the tape covering his mouth. "Smartass," the PI growled, and slammed the door violently enough to rattle the whole wall.

* * *

The Doctor fell asleep leaning against the wall at some undefinable time after the women's departure, unable to fight the pull of what was almost certainly a concussion any longer. When he awoke again, it was with racing hearts and a tight chest, as he dragged himself out of a sweaty, confusedly terrifying nightmare. Red sand, blood and water, screaming. Too-recent memories he'd rather not revisit.

He shifted himself from the corner of the closet to press his face into the floor, fighting off the resulting nausea all the way, letting the cool seep into his skin.

The women were still moving around, he noted distantly as he tried to steady his breath. In the house, or apartment, or whatever it was. It was impossible to tell from the confines of his closet.

He heard them, faintly, making noises that sounded like cooking, and although the pain in his abdomen hadn't ceased, he still found himself salivating. He could feel each of their steps in the floor.

He really wasn't _that_ hungry, all things considered. He'd been worse off, before. This was nothing.

It still sent a spike of longing through him, before he quickly squashed it down. Even if he did eat anything, he reasoned, it would likely come back up again.

The longer he stayed awake, however, the worse he felt. His head still hurt, and it was much harder to ignore the concussion while conscious, of course. But he didn't want to sleep, either, for obvious reasons. He could still feel the sweat drying on his back. He was still cold, however, and what little rest he had managed to get had refreshed him enough to put him on edge. Even if he'd wanted to sleep, he didn't think he'd have been able to.

He would have searched for a light switch, but his one attempt to stand ended in him simply sliding back down the wall to the floor, as the entire world seemed to at once flip upside down. He was stuck, staring at the little beam of light coming from under the door, trying to think of something besides his own misery and mostly failing.

He just had to remember that he'd been in worse situations, that's all. Keep up morale.

 _Remember that time on Cappex IV?_ he prompted himself. _That was a tight one. You were stuck there for nearly a month, no food, no water. And look! You're still here. Barely a scratch on you when you left, and you managed to fix that nasty monarchy up, too. This is definitely not worse than that_.

And it definitely wasn't as bad as the Valiant, for example...but he very pointedly was _not_ thinking about that. He'd been very deliberate about not thinking about the Valiant since it had happened, and he knew instinctively that breaking that streak would likely not end well for him.

It didn't matter anyway. This was hardly a big deal at all. Hungry, concussed, and thrown in a closet beat plenty of other things, honestly, and he was willing to take whatever he could get. This was hardly a blip in his life - a few hours in a closet was nothing compared to 900 plus years of experience.

Good thing he wasn't claustrophobic.

He could smell food now - Italian, he guessed. That tang of tomato was unmistakable. He took one long whiff, then forced himself to relax and move on to less agonizing observations.

The floor was, in fact, not tile but wood. He had found that out once the door had been opened. The room was smaller than he'd first thought, but he had a decent amount of room. Enough to lie down, anyway. The rope chafed at his wrists now, from his more recent struggling, and it burned like hell.

At least it was distracting.

His sonic was gone, but he had guessed that from the start. His coat had gone missing, after all, and last he remembered it had been shoved in one of the pockets.

He heard plates being set out, and just barely stopped himself from knocking his head against the wall in frustration, at the last minute remembering his injury.

The world kept spinning wildly even when he closed his eyes.

He detected a few brief words through the wall, but none that he could properly understand, before he heard a door - old, by the sound of it - scrape open, then shut again. Nothing happened for at least a minute, before he heard a small slopping sound, and those distinctive footsteps.

The Doctor watched the shadows appear in the light, and the door burst open again.

She was standing there, pale and black-haired and grim, holding a tiny plate of messy noodles and sauce. He saw nothing but darkness and hate in her eyes. So nothing had changed since he'd seen her last.

He made a little greeting noise, as much as he could muster with the tape, and tried to straighten up as best he could without aggravating his symptoms.

She scowled at him, and her disgust could be felt in the air itself.

"See this?" she said, holding the plate clearly in view. "You give me answers, I give you the food. I know you like the fancy stuff, so I made it as shitty as I could."

 _I'm flattered_.

Then she reached forward, without warning, and he scooted back against the wall to avoid her - a mistake, as it turned out, as a blinding pain shot through his head, leaving him gasping. At the same time, she tore the tape from his lips.

He felt raw and even sicker than before and very unlike himself, but he forcibly calmed his breathing, and kept silent.

When he could focus on her completely again, her expression had not changed. She held the tape in her free hand, in a fashion that indicated she was more than willing to slap it back on him again.

"So," she said, in a way that was almost conversational, except for the bite of sarcasm and anger, "what are you doing still alive?"

"That," the Doctor began, "is a very good question. Wish I could tell you." His voice came out raspy, his words running together, and he coughed. "Well. Somehow I'm just very lucky." He tried his best to smile, but she only looked more disgusted, if anything.

"I snapped your neck," she hissed. "Ringing any bells?"

"Ah," he said. "No. Sorry. Probably would remember that. I imagine that's something that's ingrained in the memory forever, really."

She leaned back on her heels for a moment, studying him. He hoped he didn't look as nasty as he felt - he usually managed not to, but he guessed he could be forgiven on this occasion if no other.

"Shit," she mumbled. "You really don't remember."

"I remember a lot of things," he offered. "That's just not one of them."

She squinted. "What's your name?"

 _Here we go_. "The Doctor."

A scoff. "What kind of name is that? You've gotta be kidding me."

He remembered when it had been truly exciting, this exchange. It did lose a bit of its shine when trapped in a closet, he supposed. More than just the imprisonment, though, he ached to the core, and he wasn't in the mood.

"Oi," he said, half-heartedly. "It's _my_ name. No need to be rude."

Again with the squint.

"What's _your_ name?" he tried.

And _there_. That flash of fear he had seen in her before. Not even fear - complete terror, horror. She said nothing for a long moment. When she did speak, it was lower than he'd heard from her yet. "Jessica Jones."

"Jessica Jones," he mused. "Has a certain ring to it. Jessica Jones."

"Stop," she snapped. He watched the fear twist her expression. Her eyes were far too bright. She had crumpled the tape in a white-knuckled fist.

"Sorry," he amended, trying for kind. It came out more roughly than he'd hoped.

She closed her eyes, evidently taking a moment to compose herself. "So," she began again upon reopening them, "the Doctor then." She paused, looking him over. "Where were you born?"

 _Had to go for the tough questions first, didn't she?_

He decided to try for a vague truth first. "Gallifrey," he said, watching for her reaction.

She frowned. "Is that in Ireland?"

"Something like that," he said wearily. He leaned his head, ever so carefully, against the wall, finding it unexpectedly heavy once again.

"Where did you go to school?"

"I didn't, really." He offered an attempt at a grin. "Bit of a troublemaker, me."

She mumbled something under her breath, but before he could question her, she moved on. "Where were you a little over a year ago?"

He exhaled, searching for a suitable answer. Closed his eyes, tried to summon up some of his normal quick wit. "Oh, it's all relative anyway," he dismissed. "What does it matter? I couldn't tell you for certain."

She glared, or at least he suspected she did. "What's that supposed to mean?"

The responding sigh dragged painfully in and out of his lungs. His head quickly resumed its pounding with renewed enthusiasm. "I forget how frustrating this can be," he explained without any real feeling. "Fun, sure, but frustrating all the same." He tried to lift his head off the wall, rouse himself a little, but that only ended in another dizzy spell, and he was forced to concede and make the wall support him once more. He tried to feel for the Earth turning underneath him, steady himself, but it only served to make everything more confusing. He could feel his mind attempting to creep back into unawareness, but he bit his tongue to keep himself anchored. When the spinning eased up a little, finally, finally, and he attempted to return to the conversation, he found that he couldn't remember what had last been said.

He blinked his eyes open again, and found her with that squinting expression, one which was becoming increasingly familiar the longer they spoke. Only now it was looking a little blurry around the edges, which was really not good news at all.

"Sorry," he said. "Would you mind repeating that?"

Jessica Jones kept studying him, before pulling out her mobile and quickly tapping something in before pressing it to her ear.

"You can come back now," she declared, without so much as a greeting. "Love you." And she hung up.

They waited a few minutes in silence, while the Doctor struggled to stay fully aware, until that scraping sound returned once again, and new footsteps appeared - a woman, judging by the heels clipping against the floor - slowly approaching.

It was the blonde woman from earlier, still with that angry-wary look on her face, stepping cautiously into view.

"Tell her to do something," Jones ordered.

The Doctor closed his eyes again, releasing yet another sigh. "I don't know what that's supposed to mean."

Upon reopening them, both women were still glaring at him. "Exactly what it sounds like," Jones retorted. "Tell her to take off her shoes, or smack me, or put a knife to her throat-"

"Why would I do that?"

The two exchanged a meaningful look, something dawning in the blonde's eyes.

"Just do it," Jessica prodded, something a little more sinister entering her eyes, the curve of her lips.

Anxiety balled itself solidly in his chest, and even the deepest of breaths couldn't ease it away. His headache had morphed into something more similar to a migraine. His shoulders were unbelievably sore, and his wrists were raw. His legs had started to fall asleep, pins and needles pricking their way along. "Fine," the Doctor snapped. "Go...get me a glass of water."

They just stood there, and looked at one another once more.

"Again," Jessica said.

He wanted to argue. He wanted to put up a fight, complain and whine and yell until they left him be. Instead, bone weary, he repeated, "Go get me a glass of water."

"Say it to Trish, not me."

The Doctor and the newly named Trish locked eyes. The woman stared at him with such hatred - almost identical to Jessica's. A vile, black thing in her eyes. Her nose was just a little bit wrinkled, but it was enough to convey the true depth of her emotion.

He just wanted to know _why_. Or better yet, he wanted it to stop.

"Go get me a glass of water."

"That's pathetic," Jessica smirked. "I want you to mean it." She shifted, ever so slightly, and light came streaming directly in his eyes. He knew, intellectually, that it was dim, yellowed and dirty, but his head didn't seem to agree, and the pain multiplied.

"Turn off the light first," he mumbled, trying to avert his eyes, screwing them shut. " _Please_."

"What was that?" she prompted, in a tone that hinted that she fully understood what he had said.

"Jess-" Trish began.

"If you want me to be of any use to you, _turn off the light_."

He was rewarded with utter silence, and then a nervous near-laugh. The light remained on, stabbing into his brain relentlessly.

"Holy shit," Trish breathed. "I mean...okay. Wow."

" _Please_ ," he repeated. He had to grit his teeth to keep from groaning.

The door swung closed again, leaving him in blessed darkness.

* * *

 **AN: And now we're starting to get rolling. I expect you'll start to see what I mean when I say that the situation here isn't exactly very straightforward. There are a lot of issues.**

 **So, with that, I ask for your feedback! I didn't get any on the first chapter (although, to be fair, there wasn't too much to comment on there), and I'd like to know how I'm doing so far! Yell at me! Good yelling or bad yelling. Any constructive criticism is good.**

 **Thank you all again! Your support means the world.**


	3. Chapter 3

**Chapter 3**

Trish managed to keep the bubble of relief inside her down until they reached the living room.

She _laughed_.

Jess was apparently just as pleased, despite her mostly neutral expression, as she didn't so much as stiffen up when Trish gave her a brief hug.

"I mean, it's him, right?" Trish said when they broke apart. "It has to be."

"I don't know what our other choices are."

"But it doesn't work. The virus."

"What did you feel?"

Trish breathed, the air cool and refreshing and pure in her lungs. "Nothing at all."

Jess smiled a faint little smile, and Trish nearly laughed again.

"But I mean, there's no way it can't be him." Trish pushed her hair away from her face, holding back more nervous-relieved laughter. "It's..."

"Yeah," Jessica agreed. She plodded back to her desk, snatched the bottle up and took a quick swig. She pulled her phone out of her pocket, stared at it for a moment.

Trish watched her for several moments before prompting, "What are you doing?"

Jessica shook her head, started to put the phone back on the desk, then stopped midway. Sighed. "Wondering if I should call Luke," she admitted begrudgingly.

"He'll kill him."

Jessica closed her eyes. "Yeah," she said again, and her voice was dry and cracked and hard. "I know. I'm wondering if I should let him."

"Jess..." Trish cleared her throat, tried again. "I wouldn't blame you," she went on. "I wouldn't, not after...not after everything." She paused, and Jessica glanced up with flat, angry eyes. "But we don't know what happened. We should figure that out before anything else."

At the same time, their eyes drifted to the plate of messy pasta, set carelessly on the desk upon their re-entrance of the room.

And through the thin walls of Jessica's shabby apartment, ever so faintly, Trish detected the sound of dry-heaving.

"Well," Jessica said, apparently having heard the same thing, "I don't think he'll be wanting this anymore." She gestured to the spaghetti, sounding flippant but looking drawn and cold.

"I hate to say it, but it might be better to try," Trish sighed. Jess glared half-heartedly at her. "We probably don't want him to starve to death," she clarified.

Jessica closed her eyes, swallowed hard. "Fine," she grumbled. She took another swig from the bottle, the motions coming out tight and violent.

"I'll take it to him."

The PI sighed. "Trish."

Without replying, Trish grabbed the plate and returned with it to the closet. The dry-heaving had ceased, but in its place was ragged breathing, with the occasional painful hitch.

She almost winced in sympathy, before remembering who she was dealing with.

She opened the door, more gently than Jessica had done so far, and found their prisoner lying awkwardly on his side on the floor, wet-lipped and pale, eyes screwed tightly shut.

To her shock, he laughed wetly upon cracking an eye open to see her.

"What?" she snapped, unnerved. Her heart raced anew, and although she knew he could no longer hurt her, her body didn't seem to agree. Memories rose to the surface again, her body preparing to flee from what it understood as a danger.

"You're blurry," he explained, only half-coherently. "Not really funny, I shouldn't be laughing. Hm." He swallowed, eyes flagging closed again. "I taste blood," he mumbled, "that's not good."

Her stomach dropped. "Blood," she echoed.

"Might just be my tongue," he puzzled. "I think I bit it. Well. Don't let me fall asleep, anyway. Standard concussion rule." Despite this, he was relaxing against the wood floor, and Trish could only stand there, clutching the plate and trying not to panic.

"Jess!" she called. "Jess!"

Without delay, Jessica thundered down the hall, evidently keying up for a fight, with her jaw clenched and shoulders tensed.

Trish just nodded to Kilgrave, who had decided to open his eyes again to look up at them. Now, though, she could see that his gaze was unfocused, and didn't quite land on them as it had earlier.

Jessica didn't quite relax, but some of the anxiety bled out of her frame. She took in the situation, eyes flitting between Trish and their prisoner. "Problems?" she said.

Kilgrave closed his eyes again and made a noncommittal noise that indicated he had stopped listening. However, after a moment of Trish trying to scramble for what to say, he grumbled, "Concussion."

"And?"

"It seems kind of serious," Trish put in. "I'm not a medical expert, he's probably fine, I just thought maybe the closet wasn't the best place..."

Jessica growled something, likely unsavory, under her breath. "We don't want him to die, right, I know." She still stood there for a second, however, not quite looking at anything, caught in her own web of conflicting priorities.

"Fine," she said. Then, to Kilgrave, ordered, "Get up."

His response was delayed by several moments, but soon enough he shifted, pushing himself back to the wall with his bound feet and rising awkwardly, leaning heavily against the corner.

"I think," he murmured, voice thick, "this is the best I can do. Right now."

Jessica snarled something under her breath, stomping forward to first loosen the bonds at his ankles, then take him by the elbow. He nearly fell over completely when she dragged him away from the corner, but with her unnatural strength she managed to keep him mostly upright. Trish could only observe, tensed and uncertain, a few feet away.

"Bed," Jessica commanded, pushing Kilgrave toward it. Trish took a few steps out of the way, reflexively, as the man stumbled forward. He somehow kept his balance, but it seemed to take all of his concentration, as he didn't even bother to hobble the few remaining steps to his destination. Jessica had to march him closer, then half-push him onto the mattress, her lip curled in disgust all the while.

Kilgrave hummed something, but as his face was half-obscured by the sheets, it was impossible to tell what, exactly, it was.

"Don't die," Jessica growled, "or I'll kill you."

"Seems counter-intuitive," he mumbled, "but I'll do my best. Probably fine, anyway. Just..." Trailing off, his eyes drifted closed again, and he gave a quiet sigh before going totally limp.

* * *

The Doctor woke up once more not terribly long afterwards, still half-choking on the fire and smoke from his dream, even as he gasped in the polluted but smoke-free Hell's Kitchen air.

The hyperventilation didn't improve his dizziness in the slightest, and he found himself once more fighting back bile. It ended, unfortunately, in him jolting up to lean over the edge of the bed, his empty stomach rebelling against him once again.

When it was over, his throat was raw, and he could detect the presence of someone hovering in the doorway.

"This has not been a great day," he confided. Already he could feel himself fading away again, although his hearts were still pounding furiously from the strain. The world was turning slowly back to gray, and he could half-see the licking flames of his dreams consuming the room.

"Move," Jessica Jones' now-familiar exhausted voice told him, before shifting him away from the edge herself, her touch hard enough to threaten bruising. He groaned at the jarring movement, but found himself settled peacefully in the center of the bed on his stomach, head craned at an awkward angle to allow him to breathe.

He felt as though he was adrift on a raft in the middle of rough waters, but a raft was far better than being tossed around by the water itself, at least. It felt a little less like drowning.

Jessica was still standing nearby - her eyes on him felt like ice, so cold it burned.

"You're skinny," she remarked, at last, wary.

It almost came out accusingly. The way Donna had always said it.

Oh, it _burned_ , that thought, through mind and body alike. His chest went tight, the breath he had slowly been gathering back whispering itself away in one painful gust.

"So they tell me," he croaked out.

He just wanted to stop thinking, and somehow the head injury wasn't helping him at all on that front. Just his luck.

"I guess a lot can change in a few months," she went on, in that same cautious, biting tone.

"Oh, I've always been skinny, me," he went on, because it was better than letting the poisonous thoughts stew dangerously in his brain. Speaking, at least, distracted his mouth - even though the words came out sloppy and jumbled. "Just a lucky metabolism, I guess. Well, I do run, though. About the only exercise I get, to be honest, but it works wonders, you wouldn't believe-"

"Where are you living right now?" she cut in.

"Eh...well..."

Before he could stammer out an excuse, there was a distinctive knocking sound, seeming to come at a greater distance than it likely was. Jessica grumbled something under her breath and swept out of the room without another word, just as another knock sounded.

Again, that scraping noise, and Jessica saying what sounded like, "Long time no see."

"I was hoping it would be a little longer, to be frank," a new voice piped up - female, likely around Jessica's age - wry and resigned. "You called?"

Interested, the Doctor struggled to reposition himself, and managed a decent view of the door before he had to stop and recover.

"Yeah. You shouldn't be here long - Trish just made me call you in." The voices were slowly becoming more distinct as the two women made progress through the living space, in the Doctor's direction.

"Is she hurt?" Now, real concern. Alertness, professionalism.

"'S a little more complicated than that." A pause. "No, okay, she's not. She's fine." Not a second later, Jessica appeared in the doorway, as grouchy as before, with a side of nervous energy, accompanied by a brown-skinned woman. Beyond the fact that she had sharp, intimidating features, the Doctor couldn't discern much of her face.

"Okay," the woman said. "What did you do?"

Jessica didn't explain, only insisted, "Please, just..."

The Doctor didn't realize he'd closed his eyes and started to fade away again until someone touched his shoulder and brought a little bit of the world back with it. Including, regretfully, a freshly complaining head.

"Hey," the new woman said, firm but not unkind. "I'm going to help you sit up, and then I'll do a few tests."

"Tests. Doesn't sound good," he hedged in a mumble. But when she rearranged his legs and grabbed his shoulders to help him upright, he didn't fight her off, even though the movement tugged at his wrists in a positively torturous manner. His headache only increased further upon sitting upright, and did not improve when he forced his eyes open to look at the new guest.

She was sitting, apparently having at some point brought up a chair by the bed, fairly close to him, and scanned his face briefly before becoming incrementally more serious.

He discovered as she ducked away to fish around inside of a bag beside her chair that things were clear enough to detect a few details up close, but at any sort of distance, they were incredibly less so.

The woman came up again, and with her brought a blocky black object which she raised up to the Doctor's face. "It's a flashlight," she explained, apparently detecting some hesitation from him. "I'm checking your eyes."

"Reasonable," he allowed.

She nearly blinded him with the light, and when she was through and he was left blinking away spots, what he could tell of her expression was that she was not happy.

"Dizziness?" she questioned, half to him and half to Jessica, who lurked at some undefinable location in the room. "Nausea, confusion, headaches...I'm assuming yes, on all those?"

Jessica made a huffing, indecisive noise.

"How many fingers am I holding up?" the woman asked, leaning back a little bit.

The Doctor squinted, a cold pit sinking into his stomach as he realized that this should have been much easier than it was. He could see that her hand was raised, but beyond that it was just a blur of light brown, painted on a blur of dark, indistinct colors.

"Yeah," the woman sighed, "that's what I thought. Can I see where he was hit?"

There was a shuffling as the woman stood and walked out of view, a scuffing, and the bed dipped just slightly. It should have been warning enough, but the Doctor still jerked when latex-clad fingers lightly grazed the back of his head.

The pain was slight but fiery, and he had to hold his breath to keep from squirming away as the woman examined it. When the bed resumed its earlier position as she got up, the breath swept out of him, leaving him faint and the world foggy and more gray than before.

Those hands grasped his shoulders, lifting him upright once more, before he'd even realized he'd been listing to the side. He focused on his rescuer, as much as he could, and found her shaking her head.

"I have to recommend getting to a hospital," the woman was saying, "though God knows you won't listen to me."

"It's not as bad as it looks," the Doctor tried to assure her, but it came out a little more whiny and slurred than he'd intended.

"Really," she said, dripping doubt.

"He's mostly coherent," Jessica hedged.

The woman sighed. "Small mercies. 'Mostly' still isn't good enough, though. How hard did you hit him, exactly?"

"It was a split second reaction," Jessica defended. "Holding back on the strength wasn't my top priority. He's lucky I didn't send him through the wall."

The nurse sighed again, heavier this time. "Okay, I get it. Has he been sick at all?"

The Doctor kind of resented the talking-about-him-while-in-front-of-him thing, but to protest seemed like too much work. It was hard enough at this point to concentrate on staying semi-upright, let alone form an appropriately outraged response.

"A couple of times," Jessica admitted gruffly.

"Dammit," the woman huffed, turning back to the Doctor. It was getting harder and harder to discern her expression as the seconds ticked by, but he could tell that she was looking him over, ready to make some kind of call. "When was the last time that actual _food_ came up?"

Jessica paused, a hefty and cautious silence. "Never."

" _Never?_ You've gotta be kidding me." He could see her hands coming toward his face as if time itself had slowed, thought about moving, but the thought kept turning itself in circles instead of resolving into an action, and he ended up flinching at the plastic-y slip of gloves against his skin. "Hey," the woman prodded, in a way that almost could have been considered kind. She was practically cradling his head in her hands. "Stay with me. When was the last time you ate?"

Oh, this was important, wasn't it? He'd thought about this earlier, he knew, he remembered, back when he had first woken up. Two weeks? Three weeks? Since anything even resembling a meal, at least. He'd had some tea here and there, of course, a nibble of the local fruit on one planet, a bite of cheese on another. Enough to keep him moving. It had been a few days since he'd really had anything, though. Perhaps another couple of days tagged onto that now, depending on how long he'd been unconscious. And the time spent in the closet, too...any guess of how long that had been was escaping him.

"Hey," the woman repeated, lightly patting his cheek to draw his quickly waning attention. He found that he'd closed his eyes again, but didn't try to reopen them this time. "Do you remember what I asked you?"

"Oh, yes," he hummed. "I was thinking. Five days?"

She stilled. The way she was pressed into his face, he could feel as her pulse skipped, then shot into high gear. "Shit," she breathed. "Water. You've been drinking water, at least? Of course, you'd be dead if you hadn't. Shit."

"Here and there," he mumbled, but he didn't think she was listening any longer. She pulled away, ordering Jessica to go to the kitchen, giving instructions the Doctor thought he probably should have been listening to, and then she was back, and her hands were glove-free, like twin heating pads against his face.

"Stay with me," she instructed, "stay awake. You can go to sleep in a few minutes, but not yet." It was a lot harder than she made it sound, although he didn't want to sleep any more than she wanted him to. He knew what awaited him in the night, and he knew it would not be pleasant. But she was so warm and human, and although he was hurting and confused, the prime Time Lord healing mechanism for any injury was sleep (even if he couldn't go into a full-on healing coma), and he'd already been resisting it for so long. It wasn't hard to let her support him, let himself ease into blackness.

She was patting his cheek again. Or, not patting, nearly slapping. "Wake up," she hissed, "wake up." It occurred to him, later than it should have, to open his eyes and make an attempt to pull away, but she still had her hands on him, now holding his head still, although she did stop the slapping. She was even blurrier than before - a smudge of a human being, with another smudge behind her.

"There we go," she said, "there we go. Hungry?"

He almost laughed, though he wasn't sure why it was funny. Because he was hungry, intensely so. He felt like a hollowed-out version of himself, empty down to the bone.

"Not really," he rasped.

"Too bad." She removed a hand to reach behind her, and waited. The Doctor waited, too, rooting himself to the moment by pulling on his bonds, feeling the flush of pain tear through him and regretting the action the second he did it. "Jessica?" she prompted after a long second, voice becoming audibly strained.

There was no response, for a moment like an eternity, before Jones sniffed, "It's Kilgrave, Claire."

Again, the woman went suddenly stony. "What?"

"Him. That's Kilgrave."

The other hand disappeared, and he found himself without an anchor - the pain began to simply send him spinning farther away rather than keep him soundly on Earth, his eyes closed themselves with no agreement from him, and any direction he had had before as to which way was up vanished immediately. He was left to fall helplessly into nothing, though he could still hear angry human voices above him, as though he was trapped in a hole far beneath them and their biting words. He understood that he should be listening - it felt like an important conversation. But what little he had heard made no sense, and his current condition didn't allow him much room to think complexly about it.

He wanted to go to sleep. But he didn't want to go to sleep. He wanted to eat, or maybe knew that he should, but he didn't want to so much as look at any kind of food. He was full of interesting and painful contradictions.

But then there were hands on him - hot, human hands - and he was being maneuvered against something hard. When his head bumped against it the white pain that flashed through him almost sent him away entirely, before more hands took his head and lifted it away from the surface. There were words said, but deciphering their meaning took too much energy for him to muster. Something poked at his lips. A straw?

"Drink," he heard. The voice - the woman's voice - was a lot colder than it had been before, he thought. He listened, taking a sip of some thick, goopy liquid. He thought it was probably disgusting, tasted like an unspeakable combination of vegetables and fruit, but he didn't have enough left in him to so much as grimace.

At some point the straw was removed, and he was shifted again, this time onto something soft and much more comfortable. His mouth tasted foul, his head pounded, and his wrists burned, but even all that couldn't keep him from fading quietly into blackness. He heard the voices, above him again, but it didn't matter anymore.

He thought he felt someone touch his face, shaky and soft and deathly cold, but the dark enveloped him before he could be sure.

* * *

 **AN: Obviously, his concussion symptoms are a bit exaggerated to what you would normally see in a concussion patient, but to my thinking Jessica slammed him pretty hard. As she said, he's lucky she didn't kill him lol. Not to mention that his physical condition would probably only aggravate the head injury more, added to the obvious fact that he isn't human. Still, if it's too grossly exaggerated, or unrealistic, let me know! I'm not a medical professional lol.**

 **In any case, please leave me some feedback! I might post the next chapter earlier than normal, just because I'm itching to get it out there for you guys, but that kind of depends on the kind of response I get from you. :)**

 **Thanks for reading!**


	4. Chapter 4

**Chapter 4**

Claire came to slowly, crunched into a chair in just the right way to give her a painful crick in her neck. She rolled her shoulders experimentally, wincing, before cautiously sitting upright and scanning the room.

She was alone, but for the man who was apparently Kilgrave lying on the bed. Jessica had vanished soon after they'd finished with him, after throwing only the words, "Don't worry about his powers, they aren't working," behind her. Drinking, Claire suspected. As for herself, she had cleaned up a little, and sat down to rest momentarily and plan her next course of action. However, she had fallen asleep almost immediately, apparently dead enough to the world that her uncomfortable position hadn't woken her.

At least today was her day off, so she wasn't missing work. Small mercies.

She stood stiffly, and crossed over to the bed, casting a calculating look over her newest patient. He didn't look like an evil man, but then, most evil men didn't. He looked more like a little boy than anything - he was even hunched into himself on the bed, as much as he could manage with his hands tied behind him. At some point Jessica had come in and bound his feet, Claire noted. The knots were sloppy, but undeniably tight. It couldn't have been comfortable, but he hadn't moved from where they'd set him the night before, so she supposed he was beyond caring.

She was beginning to wonder if she should bother to wake him - if it would even be _right_ to do for a man like him - when he made the decision for her by wrinkling his brow and twitching in place a little.

Despite Jessica's short reassurance that he couldn't harm her, she found herself wary all the same, and it took her a few seconds to gather herself before lightly shaking his shoulder. When his eyes flew open, fear shot through her, and she took an instinctive step away from him, her heart so loud in her ears that she almost didn't hear his tiny, aborted gasp of pain.

He didn't seem to recognize her as he stared at her and quickly regulated his breathing, although she couldn't blame him for it. He had barely been conscious most of the night, and even in his more aware moments, his sight had been so obviously impaired she would have been more surprised if he did remember her face.

"How are you feeling?" she prompted, cautiously, while he continued to scan her face. However, upon her speaking, he relaxed minutely.

"Oh, it's you," he said, almost cheerfully. "I mean, I thought so, I was pretty sure, I did see you for a minute there, but that just confirms it. Good to hear a familiar voice. Well, kind of familiar. Sort of."

"That didn't answer my question." He looked a lot better, though, she had to admit. Still pale, freckles standing out sharply against the skin, and clearly malnourished...but it was remarkable how lucidity had such a big impact on how healthy someone seemed.

Kilgrave deflated a little, like he'd thought she wouldn't notice the redirection. "Ohh...better. A fair bit better, actually. Surprisingly so. A good meal and some decent sleep, and I'm right as rain, me."

"The confusion seems to be better, anyway," Claire noted. She wasn't sure that he could possibly be as well as he was pretending to be, considering how he'd been the night before, but the immediate danger had passed, and she wasn't eager to spend more time on him than she absolutely needed to. Not under the circumstances. She approached him again, slowly, and he watched her all the while with large, puzzled brown eyes. She brought her chair with her and sat across from him once more, assuming the same position as the night before. "Nausea, dizziness, impaired vision?"

It almost looked like he was pouting. "I suppose the dizziness hasn't quite gone," he admitted unhappily. "But that's nothing. Really, it's infinitely better - I think I should be discharged, to be perfectly honest."

"This isn't a hospital," she said wryly.

"Duly noted," he mumbled. Louder, he continued, "I do have one question, though, now that I can think straight. Why, exactly, am I tied up in on a stranger's bed?"

He sounded so honestly exasperated that Claire sat back in her chair in surprise. "Jessica didn't say anything about memory loss," she said. "What's the last thing you remember, before last night?"

Kilgrave huffed, his slight frown edging more towards a scowl as the moments passed. "It's not...I'm not _forgetting_ anything. I don't know _why_ she decided to attack me and store me in her closet however many days ago that was. And you don't even _know_ how infuriating it is to have no idea how long I've been here." Confusion was quickly morphing into frustration, and Claire found her nerves returning in short order. She had never met Kilgrave before now, but she had seen the aftermath of his anger, and she was not eager to face it herself, powers or no powers. "I don't know who she is, I don't know who her friend is, and I don't know who you are. I have never met any of you before in my life." He glanced up at her, earnest and desperate and not-quite-angry.

"What's your name?" Claire demanded, and again her heart was thudding. This had quickly become something much bigger than she had expected - but what had she been thinking, when she had answered a call from Jessica Jones? Sometimes she couldn't stand herself, how foolish she could be.

"The Doctor," he said, patience clearly waning. "How many times to I have to insist to you all that I don't _know_ you?"

"Stay here," she ordered through a new fearful lump in her throat, rising.

"Not like I have much choice," he sighed, and then pressed his face further into the pillows.

She found Jessica on her tiny couch, an empty bottle of something foul-smelling lying tipped-over on the floor by an outstretched hand. The woman's mouth was propped slightly open, her hair a tangled mess. However, she seemed to sense Claire standing over her, as she stirred and breathed in deeply.

"Jesus," she mumbled, wincing, "what time is it?"

"Almost ten," Claire reported. "You didn't tell me he didn't remember anything."

The PI groaned, and shifted into a slouched sitting position. She rubbed her face, groaned again. "Fine, sorry, whatever. But I'm still not completely sure, anyway, so-"

"It doesn't matter. He has no idea what's happening. As far as he knows, a stranger jumped him, beat him up, then brought him to her house and tied him up with no explanation or reason."

"As far as he knows, _according to him_ ," Jessica corrected darkly. "You're seriously trusting him right now?"

"What would be the point?" Claire demanded. "Honestly. I know he's an asshole - beyond an asshole. I get that. But I can tell you, in my professional opinion, that I don't think he's pretending. You know Kilgrave, and you've talked to him over the past few days. Does this guy seem like him?"

Jessica stood, scooping up the empty bottle with her and slamming it on the nearest flat surface - a rickety end table that nearly collapsed under the newly added weight. "So you're a professional lie detector now?"

"No. But you are. Practically."

The PI stood there, scraping a hand through her hair, and Claire found herself speechless upon seeing the slightest glint of fear in the other woman's eyes. "Fine," Jessica ground out. "No, he doesn't act like Kilgrave. He didn't seem to recognize me at all when I talked to him the first time. He hasn't seemed to recognize me since then. He's been asking questions since the beginning. But I _know_ it's him, Claire. It's him, whether he remembers all the shit he did or not."

"So what do we do?"

* * *

"I called in some favors," Trish reported, her voice crackling over the phone. "I'm on my way over right now - give me ten minutes."

Jessica breathed, and it felt like taking in hope again.

"Sounds good," Claire agreed, before Jessica hung up and they were left to continue preparing.

The house was cleaned up - only a little bit, but the difference was incredible. The few knives that Jessica owned had been locked securely in a tiny, beat-up safe Claire had procured from her own home just ten minutes earlier, and that had then been stored in a locked drawer in her desk. The safe also housed the little silver-blue tool Jessica had found in Kilgrave's coat, after she'd raided the pockets. As for the coat itself, that was hung in the cramped, unused closet in the hall.

Other sharp or particularly heavy objects - luckily, there were very few of them - were hidden here and there. Even Jessica, who knew precisely where they were, had a hard time spotting them upon performing her inspection through the apartment. Claire had stayed out of it for the most part, to be safe, in case Kilgrave's powers had simply been temporarily impaired instead of permanently.

By the time Trish arrived, the apartment was the cleanest it had been in ages, and Jessica relished in the look of surprise on her friend's face as she entered the living room.

"It looks like a new place," she reveled.

"It's still a dump," Jessica countered dryly, "but it's safe."

As expected, Kilgrave was lying exactly where they'd left him on the bed, and as expected, he watched them intently as they entered, his eyes locking immediately on the object Trish held in her hands.

"Now," he began, "that doesn't _look_ like a torture device. However, forgive me if I'm inclined to be a little wary." It was almost a joke, but Jessica could see - and couldn't deny she was pleased with - the glint of real concern in the man's eyes.

"Nope," Claire quipped as she took her position by his head, "no torture. I'm a nurse, I promise you I don't do that kind of thing."

"Oh, a nurse!" he exclaimed. "That's brilliant, love nurses. I'm the Doctor, though, so of course I do. It's actually kind of funny-"

"Do you ever shut up?" Jessica grumbled. She stood next to Claire, nearer Kilgrave's middle, her palms slippery with anticipation and nerves.

"Well...I try." He offered a wry smile.

"Try harder."

Trish came last, clutching her new treasure tightly, moving stiffly and nervously to Kilgrave's feet. "You don't remember," she began cautiously, "but you were not a good man." She turned the device over in her hands - just to distract herself, Jessica imagined.

Something flickered in Kilgrave's eyes that made Jessica immediately uneasy. It was an anger, a guilt, a disgust, that made her stomach flip. However, the emotions vanished as soon as they'd emerged, with nothing more than a blink.

"You hurt a lot of people...shit, that's such an understatement." Trish took a deep breath. Jessica followed suit, vainly attempting to tame her rising anger. "People died. They killed themselves because you told them to. They hurt other people because you told them to." That look had returned, and Kilgrave swallowed. His eyes had gone dark, and Jessica felt that vile hatred welling up in her again, so strongly she had to close her eyes and clench her fists. "You ruined people's lives. And we guess you don't remember that. But Jessica killed you, and we need to know how you're still here."

"And you have to give back," Jessica spat, the words bursting forth of their own accord, as the emotion she'd been trying so desperately to hold back unleashed itself.. "You have taken _everything_ from me. _Everything_. Not just from me - countless people in this city. I don't care if you don't remember doing it - you're going to make up for it. Do you understand?" She felt sick, and furious, and almost faint.

She opened her eyes, meeting Kilgrave's.

They were swallowed with a strange sort of grief, a hatred of their own that rivaled even hers. It felt like staring into an abyss, something dark and unknowable and foreboding.

He nodded.

"You're not going to leave this apartment," Trish was saying, sounding much farther away than a few measly feet. "This is a sensor that will know if you try to do so, and it will send alerts to Jess, me, and someone you would really rather not know about you being back at all. If he knew you were alive, and here, he would kill you." Trish took another deep breath, and attached it to their prisoner's leg quickly, efficiently, despite her visibly trembling hands. She tucked a small, glinting object into her jacket pocket - the key - and stepped away.

* * *

 **AN: A somewhat shorter chapter today, but I'll make up for it later! I was set a little bit behind these past couple of weeks, because I had to rewrite several chapters in order to make a particular (important) scene make more sense, but I'm still inching along on fishing the rough draft of the final few chapters up. I'm predicting that we'll have more than 20 chapters, maybe even up to 25 if I end up being especially long-winded, which would make this my longest story ever! Wow.**

 **Also, if you haven't reviewed yet, please give me some feedback! There aren't too many of you here (which is fair, because this isn't an often-hunted-for crossover), so I need all the response I can get from you! I appreciate anything you have to say. :)**

 **Have a great rest of the week! I might see you a little sooner than that, depending on how writing goes this week, but at the very least I'll be back next Monday.**


	5. Chapter 5

**Chapter 5**

The Doctor watched as a the little red light on the side of the device blinked on - he was officially trapped.

"Can I be untied now?" he asked, forcing his most charming smile on the women above him. Lying on his back, his already damaged wrists were pinned underneath him, and any jarring movements sent bolts of pain up his arms.

Jessica Jones scowled, but reached over and briskly undid the knots at his ankles. Without further ado, she rolled him over (he definitely didn't sigh in relief as the pressure on his injuries vanished) and pulled off the rope at his wrists.

As soon as the air hit them, he had to grit his teeth against the onslaught of fiery pain, so focused on keeping quiet that he almost missed the nurse's whistle.

He turned over, cautiously, feeling the thrum of tension throughout the room as the women waited for him to make a move, to lash out, to do something. Instead, he sat up, looked at his wrists, and winced.

It didn't look as bad as it felt, but it certainly didn't look great. 'Rubbed raw' was the best descriptor - skin was broken here and there in ragged circles where the rope had been. The cuts and rope burns were reddened with emerging infection, highlighted by the occasional blotch of dried blood.

The nurse was digging around in something by the bed, he noted when he looked up. Jones and Trish stood close together by the doorway, Jessica watching warily, Trish looking mildly disturbed.

"Here," the nurse said, popping back up with rolled bandages and a wilted tube of some medical gel. She took his hands, smearing the stuff - sticky, clear, and odorous - all over the injuries, ignoring his involuntary twitches of pain. He should have known she was a nurse upon seeing her, he thought as she worked. She was in her element - brisk, professional, and clean. Her face remained almost entirely expressionless as she finished, rolling a couple layers of bandages on each wrist before releasing him.

He poked at one bandage, testing for...something, he wasn't sure what, before she pushed his hand away, rolling her eyes, and began to pack up her equipment.

"Change the bandages every 12 hours or so," she instructed, passing the necessary supplies to an obviously unhappy Jessica. "No medication or alcohol until all the concussion symptoms are gone - et cetera. I'm sure you know the drill." She stood, slinging a black bag over her shoulder. "I'm going home to get some real sleep."

Trish bid the nurse a muted goodbye as she left the room, apparently eager to escape, and moments later that scraping door slammed shut.

"Well!" the Doctor exclaimed. "What now?"

Their next move turned out to be...nothing.

Trish left shortly after the nurse, saying something to Jessica about work before slipping away. Jessica took the Doctor into the living area with her, sat him in a chair and ordered him to stay there, while she sat behind her desk and tapped away at her laptop, her brow frequently scrunching as she thought.

It wasn't a very interesting captivity so far. Against the nurse's advice, the Doctor mostly occupied himself by picking absently at his bandages, wondering all the while what his captor could possibly be doing for _so long_. Humans still baffled him, even after hundreds of years of travelling with them.

Finally, at last, she sharply slammed the laptop shut and stood. "I'm leaving," she said, snatching a jacket off a nearby, rusty coat rack.

The Doctor watched her gather her things, baffled. "Why?" She grabbed a small black bag, slung it over one shoulder, glared at him.

"I have a job," she explained, as if he was a particularly stupid child. "I'll be back."

"Odd hours," he remarked.

"I'm self-employed." Very nearly sneering, she swept off, slamming the door behind her in such a way that the glass in it - reading _Alias Investigations_ \- rattled dangerously.

The apartment building was small, and built in such a way that he could feel her stomping footsteps, just slightly, for several seconds after she was gone. As soon as they disappeared, he stood, that familiar restless curiosity buzzing in his chest.

The first thing he did was snoop. It didn't turn out to be terribly interesting, however, as she had few possessions, and what she did have was mostly practical. She did have an impressive liquor collection stashed away in one cupboard however, and a single picture of herself and Trish hidden in a dark corner of her kitchen.

She had taken all the knives, he noted as he dug through drawers. He had to commend her for her thorough preparations, although if he had been the type to use knives he would not have been very pleased. He found a few objects she'd hidden away, such as an especially heavy paperweight, that she'd evidently decided were unsafe to keep out in the open. He put them back where he'd found them, although he filed their locations away in case of an emergency.

The highlight of the search was discovering his coat, stashed at the very back of the closet. He was less happy to find that the pockets had been emptied of anything useful, but swinging the familiar fabric over his shoulders helped him feel a little more like himself.

He was already regretting his decision to stay trapped, only three hours (at most) into his captivity. Now that his concussion was retreating, the TARDIS became more and more easy to detect - she hummed fretfully in the back of his mind. If she could have called him names, she would have. She wasn't too pleased with his decision either.

He stared down at the band around his ankle, knowing (the knowledge like a cold pit in his stomach) that he could escape, if he really wanted to. Once he got into the TARDIS, he would be free, even if the moments leading up to that might be harrowing, possibly even a little dangerous. He'd have to avoid Jessica's unhappy friend, and determining how easy that would be was near impossible from his current position. But hacking the device wouldn't be terribly difficult, either, although certainly time consuming.

The Doctor craved freedom, as if it had been stolen from him years ago instead of mere hours, and yet he knew he didn't deserve it, not until he dealt with this. He needed to find the truth behind this 'Kilgrave' character, before any ideas of escape could be addressed.

But he wasn't sure that he really wanted to know the truth of it at all, remembering Jessica's dead eyes, Trish's fear, the nurse's sudden coolness with him. Remembering Martian water, screaming and violence, fury and desperation burning through him, contaminating him. He could still feel the burn lurking, behind caution and hastily erected barriers of terror.

He knew that they might even let him leave, if he was just to ask them how many hearts this Kilgrave had. It would take seconds, and he could be free.

Or it could tell him everything he didn't want to know.

He didn't want to look at this Kilgrave and see himself - the Time Lord Victorious.

Jessica came back, the chill of the city radiating off of her as she sauntered into the room. She had only been away for a little over two hours - and there wasn't much to be said for her hospitality thus far - but the Doctor was nonetheless just a little bit glad to see her.

Apparently set on ignoring him, she didn't once meet his eyes as she resumed her earlier position at her desk, prying her laptop open again.

Feeling another presence in the room was pleasant though, however frigid that presence was, and he tilted his head back against her dingy, liquor-scented couch and closed his eyes. Jessica began alternately typing and clicking, typing and clicking, her chair occasionally rolling a foot or so to the side before coming back to center as she did something or other.

It was a little bit annoying, and a little bit relieving.

His wrists were stinging again, and his shoulders had, at one point just an hour before, realized that they had been in a painful position for quite a long time, and begun to protest with an aching soreness that spread throughout his back. He had long since placed his coat back where he'd found it, suspecting that Jessica had stashed it back there for a reason, and he found himself with an unexpected chill. Sleep, as always, seemed both an inviting and terrifying prospect. However, he had made the poor decision to start pacing at one point during her absence, until his dizziness had eagerly returned, so he found himself without much of a choice.

It was easier, anyway, to sleep with another body close by. Or, not close, but in the same building, the same room. It had been a while since he'd had that opportunity. Jessica hated him, but she still sat there at her desk, with him just a room's-length away, and hearing her breathing, her occasional indistinct mumble as she thought and worked, provided him a strange kind of peace that ached in his chest.

The individual sounds eventually blurred into nothing but white noise. Even the couch and all its stench began to fade. He had just, so very cautiously, tapped the edge of sleep when something grabbed painfully at one wrist.

At the very last minute, he managed to smother his gasp of surprise into nothing more than a sharp inhale through the nose, as his eyes flew open, finding Jessica staring at him, one of his wrists in her grip, her nose slightly wrinkled.

He forced himself to relax, pushing away the tinge of embarrassment that followed his reaction. "There are gentler ways to get someone's attention, you know," he pointed out.

"We have to change these," she said, already unwinding one bandage. She had set out the roll of bandages and the antibiotic ointment beside her. She held him firmly, as if she thought he might try to bolt, and her touch was harsh as she carelessly spread the ointment on one wrist, then the other, before wrapping them once more.

"Thank you," he replied, quietly, sincerely, but she was already pulling away, bringing the supplies with her back to her desk.

"What are you doing?" he prodded as she resumed her tapping and clicking.

She shot him one of her unamused, distrusting looks. "Work." She apparently expected her attitude to scare him off, as she gave yet another of those looks when he questioned her again.

"What is it that you do?"

Reluctantly, in a mumble, she explained, "I'm a PI."

"Oh, brilliant! Are you any good?"

She eyed him. "I'm very good."

"Self-confidence, I like it. That's the trick. Here, I'm good with investigations," he hopped up, ignoring the pain that the jostle spiked into his head, "can I see?"

She put a hand on the top of the laptop as he approached. He would have said that she looked alarmed - she gripped the edge of her desk, knuckles near-white, her jaw clenched - except that was too soft a word to use for the expression of utter horror on her face. He had nearly made it beside her before she finally snapped, "No."

The cautious banter they had nearly developed dissolved in less than a second, and the room became detectably colder. He paused mid-step while she watched for his next move. "Oh, er...sorry." He retreated, analyzing her face for some kind of reaction. She just stared at him as he walked, cataloguing his every move. Once he was sat on the couch again, she resumed her "work," now occasionally casting a suspicious glance up at him.

He could see the trauma now, in every line of her, now that his head was clearer, now that that trauma had been aggravated. 'Afraid' wasn't a word that he figured most people would apply to Jessica Jones, but then, he figured most people couldn't see past her prickly exterior. She was afraid. Afraid of Kilgrave, although she claimed she had killed him...afraid of the Doctor, now.

He didn't much fancy people fearing him, although he'd had his fair share of it over his lifetime. It still hurt, a little, in the part of him that secretly yearned for approval from the humans he had so readily embraced.

Eventually, Jessica relaxed, enough that her glances became less and less frequent. It took far longer than the Doctor would have liked. She was broken, he understood now. Not completely, not so far as to be lost...and maybe _broken_ wasn't entirely the right word. But she had been knocked down one too many times to be whoever she had been before.

It was becoming more and more evident that Kilgrave had been the one doing the knocking-down. Or at least, the one to deliver the last blow.

He didn't really want to ask - knew he would be happier not knowing - but oh, the words were building, angry and sick and deathly terrified, in the back of his throat.

"What did he do to you?" he asked, soft, noting that Jessica froze and looked up again the moment he spoke. Again that fear appeared on her face, in her eyes, and he felt something similar welling up in him.

He decided that he didn't really want to know, but she was already talking. "What _you_ did to me," she corrected, her casual, albeit icy, tone contrasting against her face, which was anything but calm. "Like I said. You took _everything_."

He remembered. More than just her words from days ago, he remembered Davros', so long ago, feeling like centuries instead of just weeks. His companions, humans turned weapons, laying down their lives, their morals even, for him. Just like Jessica said they would here and now, because he would make them. He gazed down at his hands where they were curled in his lap, and recalled with sickening clarity how Donna's head had felt in them before she'd collapsed into him, because he had made her forget. He hadn't given her a choice. It had been to save her life, of course, to save his best friend in all the universe, but she hadn't wanted...

Could this be him? Kilgrave? His doing, his design? Taking whatever he could get his hands on, including what Jessica had implied by 'everything'? He looked up to her, and found her staring back, eyes so dark, so pained and terrified and angry.

"Jessica," he began, unsure of what he meant to say. But she didn't let him finish, standing up so that her chair spun back and away, hitting the wall and nearly toppling over.

"Stop," she warned. Her face was twisted in a grimace, like she was fighting herself, trying not to break into tears, or punch him, or destroy everything in sight. "Shut the hell up, and if I hear my name out of your mouth again I'll shut you up myself." She closed her eyes, gathered herself as much as she could. She stood, trying to catch her breath, shaking ever so slightly (though she didn't seem to notice), pale as a sheet, a mess to her very core, and so, so human. Heartbreakingly so.

The worst part of it, perhaps, was that he knew he couldn't stop himself from hurting her, if that was really what had happened after all, or would happen for him (and oh how he hoped it wasn't). It always seemed that he didn't know he was doing it, when he hurt them all, all his companions. They didn't even seem to know, or at least they never told him if they did. Maybe they understood it was an accident, that he never wanted to do them any harm.

He knew he was dangerous, had known for quite a long time. He had felt it inside him early on, in the early days, and it had only grown in the Time War, in the aftermath, and every day after that. After Rose, Martha, and now Donna. But he had told himself, time and time again, that he would stop himself before he ever devastated an innocent life as completely as he seemed to have devastated Jessica's.

He read in her a wicked intelligence, a desire to do the right thing, an intense care for the ones she decided to trust. She was fractured, all of those pieces of herself splintered, drawn in, so that they hardly saw the light now.

It wasn't something he thought he would be able to do on accident.

This sobering realization sunk into him deep, like knives, like shards of glass, like everything sharp and jagged in the universe.

Jessica ordered him out of the room, her voice shaking enough to betray how upset she truly was, and he fled, afraid to look into her eyes again.

* * *

 **AN: Hope you all enjoyed! I'm creeping closer to the end of this story now, and it's super exciting! I hope you guys are looking forward to it.**

 **On a sadder note, my oldest cat got really sick this past weekend. We aren't sure if she's going to make it, so just send us some good thoughts (or prayers). So that may or may not affect updating next week. It shouldn't, since I have prepared chapters, but my Mondays are also very busy anyway. We'll have to see. :/ I'll do what I can, but I hope you understand I might be a little late, depending on what happens.**

 **Thanks for all your support!**


	6. Chapter 6

**Chapter 6**

The very second that Trish registered the tiny waver in Jess' voice over the phone, she began to pull her shoes on, and was walking out the door of her apartment before the call had even ended.

She made it in record time, having fluffed her cab driver's payment to encourage him to speed, and practically ran up the stairs of Jessica's apartment building upon arrival, not bothering to wait for the elevator.

She found it hard to express her relief in words as Jessica yanked open the door at the first knock, and had to resist the urge to sweep the other woman into a hug.

"Jesus, Trish," the PI sighed, pulling back to let her in, "I told you it was no rush."

"Honestly, Jess, I don't care," Trish replied, taking off her coat and setting it on the nearest available surface - the couch - before sitting down heavily and running her hands through her hair. "You sounded scared. I took it seriously."

She thought for a moment that Jessica would make one of her annoyed faces and turn away, but to her surprise, her adopted sister instead sat beside her, assuming a similar posture. "I wasn't scared," she protested, but it came out weakly.

"What happened?"

"Nothing." This time, the words were stronger. At Trish's look, she sighed again and said, "Fine. He got a little too close, said my name, and I almost lost it. That's _all_."

"Oh, Jess..."

"Stop." Now the other woman stood again, and began to walk across the room. "I don't...stop, Trish. It's over now, anyway. Did you bring the stuff?"

Trish knew Jessica well enough to understand that she wouldn't be getting any more information out of her with sympathy, so she just grabbed the small duffel she had hastily packed before her departure and handed it over. "Pants, shirts, underwear, socks," she listed off, even as the PI dug through the bag. "A couple of each."

"Good," Jessica affirmed.

"I'll take them to him," Trish offered. Surprisingly, Jessica only made a face at the suggestion. Trish imagined that she was maybe a little bit relieved to not have to face their prisoner again.

"Tell him to take a shower, too," was all the other woman grumbled. "He stinks."

Trish didn't have to look far to find Kilgrave - he was sat on the edge of Jessica's bed, just like he had been just 24 hours earlier as Claire had tended to him. And just like then, she found him staring blankly ahead. This time, however, he tapped a foot against the wood floor, restlessly, apparently unable to contain himself.

She knocked against the doorframe, ignoring the wave of nerves that had immediately rushed over her upon seeing him. He didn't so much as startle, only blinked and turned his head to look her way.

"You're taking a shower," she informed, lifting the bag slightly so that he would take notice. She relished a little bit in the changed roles - she the one ordering him around, him with no real choice but to listen. It satisfied a twisted, often ignored part of her, in a way she didn't quite want to think about.

He sniffed himself, and made a comically disgusted face. "Probably for the best." However, he didn't move, only gazed up at her, eyes flicking to the bag briefly, apparently hesitant to move. "What's that, then?"

"Clothes," she explained. Indicating his dirty suit, she continued, "Yours are in bad shape."

He almost looked disappointed, picking at a sleeve of his suit jacket, hunching his shoulders a little, as if seeing the grime for the first time. "Well, being trapped in a closet will do that," he muttered, without any real venom.

She would have felt sorry for him, if he was anyone else.

She remembered, again, so vividly and immediately that she felt sick to her stomach, his lips crushed against hers. It faded quickly, enough to keep her breathing steady, but she still threw the duffel on the floor at his feet with more force than was probably necessary. "Make it quick," she snapped, and left him to get on with it.

Minutes later, as she and Jess sat in near-silence in the living room, Jess doing something or other on her computer, Trish silently calming herself on the couch, the water finally began to creak through the building's old pipes.

Still, neither woman spoke. Quiet reigned, each woman trapped in her own thoughts, until the water shut off again not ten minutes later, and Trish heard the swish of the shower curtain being pushed aside.

Jessica and Trish locked eyes briefly as the door opened, and footsteps padded in the hallway.

Trish felt foolish for still being a little nervous, as if somehow the shower would have returned his power, or his memories. And she felt even more foolish for being relieved as Kilgrave emerged, reddened from the heat, hair dripping and flattened, practically swimming in the large men's clothes Trish had brought along. He looked even skinnier in them, small and unthreatening despite his height.

"To be fair, I don't remember telling you my size, so you couldn't have known," he hedged, but he looked unhappy as he pulled at the black shirt hanging off of him. "But this isn't ideal, as you can imagine, and if you could wash my suit as quick as possible, that would be brilliant! I hate to say it, well, not really, but I much prefer that over this." He pulled at the shirt again. "The trousers aren't too bad, but-"

Jessica interrupted, her tone flat and unamused, "It'll be washed. Happy?"

It would have been an exaggeration to say that he brightened up, but he very nearly smiled. "Oh, yes. Much obliged." He gestured towards Trish, who swallowed down a last burst of nerves. "Can I sit?"

Jessica scowled, but Trish nodded and moved over enough to give him room. Before he took his place, however, he grabbed two items off of Jessica's desk, seeming not to notice as she stiffened up at his approach, then joined Trish on the couch.

It was the roll of bandages and antibiotic that Claire had left, Trish discovered, from her position as far away as she could get from Kilgrave without leaving the couch. He unwound a little of the bandage, took the cap off of the antibiotic ointment, and rolled up his sleeves.

His wrists looked considerably better now that they were free of blood and had been nursed for almost a day, but Trish couldn't help but notice the swelling and the redness.

Kilgrave frowned as he noted it as well, and turned one wrist over several times to get a look at the whole injury. "That doesn't look good," he pondered. Still, he spread the antibiotic over each wrist before wrapping them, as efficiently and tightly as if he'd done it a thousand times.

Not for the first time since his capture, Trish wondered what exactly he'd been up to since his "death."

"Should be perfectly fine in not too long," he was saying, quite cheerfully considering his situation, "a few days at most. It's amazing how much better you feel when you're clean, isn't it? Blimey, I didn't even realize how filthy I'd gotten until you mentioned it. Other things to worry about, I suppose, but I can't believe I didn't even notice! Sometimes I feel like I get more oblivious by the day - which is not a good thing, even if ignorance is bliss. I've never believed that, you know-"

He kept chattering away, until Trish eventually gave up listening, having found nothing of importance in his words. He just talked to talk, to hear his own voice. Trish elected to keep an eye on Jessica instead, waiting for the other woman to react to the babbling, to yell or move to another room, but Jessica seemed to have tuned him out as well.

Trish didn't even realized that he'd stopped talking until she caught Jessica looking at him, a twisted, undefinable expression on her face.

He was asleep, Trish found, his neck craned back against the couch enough to add a slight rasp to his breathing. His mouth was propped slightly open, the bandages and ointment he had been holding had fallen into his lap as his grip had relaxed. It seemed almost like he'd fallen asleep mid-word, having not even bothered to get comfortable beforehand.

In that moment, Kilgrave, despite all of his horribleness, was vulnerable, quiet, dwarfed by his overlarge clothes, like nothing more than an ordinary man. Trish's eyes caught on his bony hands, curled almost protectively in his lap, and then on the gauntness of his face.

Without his powers, his ability to persuade and order, he must have been on the streets, she thought. She had known this, on some level, but it was somehow different to fully realize it, to see it fully in front of her. It explained the malnutrition Claire had diagnosed him with, and admittedly Trish had come to the conclusion early on. But she hadn't been staring at him then, hadn't been able to fully see his pointy elbows, sharply defined Adam's apple, the bags under his eyes.

And she recalled that he didn't remember who he was, and the soft red light blinking at his ankle seemed to gain a darkness, a new malevolence. She knew, however, that this was the right course of action - memory or no, powers or no, a man like Kilgrave couldn't be left to wander the streets. There were too many risks, too many opportunities for him to become that man again.

They just had to find out what had happened, anyway, and then the future would become clear.

* * *

The Doctor awoke, as was the norm, out of a blurry, hearts-pounding nightmare, emerging into a cold and lonely room with a sharp inhale.

He knew already, before even opening his eyes, that he was alone, but he glanced blearily around the morning-bright room anyway before standing and half-staggering to the kitchen.

On autopilot, he looked through Jessica's drawers, for what he wasn't sure. His stomach growled and ached, indicating he should eat, but his mouth felt too dry, his head was spinning, and the uncertain recollections of his dream were disturbing enough to prevent him from making a proper decision.

As the last dredges of sleep left his system, he abandoned his search and went to peer inside Jessica's room. He couldn't see much besides the soft lumps of human forms underneath the blankets - Trish was there, too, he supposed - and the empty bottle on the nightstand.

Seeming to sense eyes on her, one side of the blankets shifted, and Jessica's dark head popped up. The Doctor ducked out of view, imagining the terror she would feel upon seeing her enemy looming in her doorway, and escaped into the bathroom, only half closing the door behind him.

He took the opportunity to scrutinize his appearance. His hair stuck up oddly from sleep, but he fixed that into something more bearable with a few swipes through it. That couldn't fix his paleness, however, or his unhappy scrawniness in his baggy borrowed clothes. He had avoided looking in too many mirrors over the past week or two but for a cursory check-in on his hair now and then, knowing he wouldn't like what he saw. Recalling Donna's words - "streak of nothing" - he swallowed. She had always made sure to force some food into him at least once every couple of days. Somehow she'd had a keen sense of when he had forgotten to eat, and had popped up immediately upon noticing to drag him to the kitchen, or to a restaurant, or a bar, and shove something semi-nutritious in his mouth.

 _Oh, Donna._

Out of the corner of his eye, he watched the door slowly crack open further, and quickly carded a hand through his hair once more, pulling at it a little to distract himself.

"Hungry?" Jessica Jones asked, dry and uninterested. She wasn't going to force food into him, even if he asked her to.

"Nah," he replied, casting his brightest smile at her.

"Good." Then, with alarming strength, she grabbed him by the shoulder and steered him back into the living room, back to the couch.

"You're going to bruise me," he complained, but sat down quietly when she ordered him to, and waited while she stepped back and glanced over him.

"You've been living on the streets," she surmised, sharp despite the depressing statement, her gaze never wavering.

 _The moment of truth_ , he thought, his hearts quickening at the realization. Did he tell her the truth that either wouldn't be believed or would condemn him, or the lie that would be unproductive and perhaps even cruel?

He shrugged.

Jessica huffed, then dragged a chair over to sit across from him. She leaned forward, placing her chin in her hands, watching him. "I've been asking around," she darkly informed. "No one around here remembers seeing you at all in the past few months."

She didn't show it, but he knew that she was desperate. Anyone searching for answers was, especially answers that affected them personally. He couldn't be selfish here just so that he could go on hoping that he was innocent after all - Jessica Jones deserved better, after everything.

But if he did tell the truth, and she didn't believe him, that wouldn't help anything. He would be cast off as crazy, and his word would be trusted even less. Jessica wasn't the type to allow him to lead her to the TARDIS, or even tolerate him speaking about it. As soon as he started spouting off about aliens she would dismiss him and continue on with her wondering about what had happened to him.

That was, if he wasn't Kilgrave. He couldn't escape it, that pesky _if_. It itched at him, crawled over his skin; a virus, a bug, an inescapable uncertainty.

He knew he was a coward, but he was somehow still surprised with himself when he opened his mouth. "People are rather unobservant, as I'm sure you know," he said, and the words came out wry, even humorous. He loathed them, with a fire so deep and powerful he feared it would show in his eyes and incite Jessica's terror of him again.

It wasn't a lie, but it implied a few un-truths that burned in his stomach like acid.

 _Maybe I can help her_ , he tried to tell himself. _There has to be something that I can do while I'm here to help fix Jessica Jones_.

She stood and retrieved her laptop, bringing it close to him and prying it open. Immediately, the screen lit up, and a video began rolling.

A boy sat at a table, wires attached all over his head and some dotted over his body as well. A voice - English, the Doctor realized with a thrill of relief at the familiarity - told the boy to "solve the puzzle," while a lab coat-clad figure set a tray of colorful objects in front of him. It progressed from there, slowly getting worse, as the apparent experiment turned into a near torture session.

The first time the boy cried out, clutching at the edges of the table, the Doctor clenched his jaw.

"Jogging any memories?" Jessica asked, like a taunt.

Yes, actually, but likely not the ones she had intended.

"No, sorry," he murmured, turning forcibly away from his darkening thoughts to inspect the child's face. "Is that him? Kilgrave, I mean. Er, me. Whoever." He detected a familiar slope to the cheek, a familiar shade of brown in the eyes, and his stomach turned. It could have been this body, if he'd somehow de-aged himself.

Making an unhappy noise, Jessica shut the laptop once more. "Yes," she admitted in a near growl. "Damn, I thought that would work. You hated just listening to it last time."

"Can't say it's pleasant now," he returned. "How did you come across that footage, anyway? Seems like the kind of thing that would be carefully locked away in a dark corner of a very sadistic scientist's office."

She didn't answer, a shadow passing over her face. Instead, she put the laptop back on her desk and came back to her seat to stare at him once more.

He understood that it was clearly a subject that she wanted to avoid, but that didn't make it less frustrating. "Oh, fine. It's not terribly important in any case. Let's move on. You certainly have some kind of theory as to what happened, don't you?" She watched him warily, and he continued. "Oh come on, big fancy private investigator, 'very good,' according to yourself. Sure, there isn't a terrible amount of information to go around, but I find it hard to believe that you don't at least have some inkling as to what could have happened."

"Fine," she ground out. "There are people out there who would want to take advantage of you and what you can do. Could do. Obviously, it didn't turn out like they intended, because your powers aren't working anymore. It seems that, after they found that out, they abandoned their efforts and left you to die in the streets. It would explain why no one has seen you around, and the..." she trailed off, waving a hand to indicate his entire body.

"You've been thinking about this a lot," he mused, crossing his arms over himself protectively in response to her scrutiny. "But why would I have a head full of memories of another life, then?"

There was another explanation, of course, a far more likely one - it simply hadn't happened for him yet.

However, this of course wouldn't occur to someone like Jessica, however brilliant she was. Humans, in no fault of their own, were incredibly isolated, blind to possibilities outside of what they expected. Even the particularly sharp ones were prone to close-mindedness at times. And with the lack of exposure, to time travel, well...he couldn't blame her. She raised an eyebrow at him, artful and almost smug. "The brain can do a lot to cope with unexpected stress."

"That's fair, I suppose."

"I'm getting the sense that you don't believe me," she said flatly.

The Doctor closed his eyes, looked inside himself, felt the ravishing burn of that incomparable fury inside of him he could never quite dodge, and sighed to steady himself.

"No," he replied, on a breath. "It's all too believable, really."

* * *

 **Hope you all enjoyed!**

 **My cat is starting to recover, so that's good! We aren't out of the woods yet, but I'm feeling a little more hopeful about it. :)**

 **If you have any thoughts to share with me, don't hesitate to do so! I appreciate everything you guys have to say :)**


	7. Chapter 7

**Chapter 7**

It took only a few days for Jessica and Trish to set up a kind of routine.

Trish, on the nights that she stayed over (the amount of which had increased dramatically since Kilgrave's imprisonment) would wake up the next morning and head back to her own apartment to shower before going to work. Jessica would wake up shortly after Trish's departure, check briefly in on Kilgrave, then take a shower herself and prepare for the day ahead. After her show was over, Trish would come over and Jessica would go do disappointing research until nightfall. At that point they would eat dinner, and then the proper arrangements would be made for the night to come, depending on whether or not Trish had decided to stay.

After almost a week of this with no progress on Kilgrave's reappearance, Jessica began hesitantly taking on other cases so that she could continue paying her bills. Small cases, that didn't take much effort. Or, if they were larger, promised a hefty paycheck. They were much more stressful than they normally would have been, as she felt constantly pressured to be hunting down answers about Kilgrave, but she had no choice if she wanted to keep her lights on, so she pressed onward.

Things settled quickly into a tense, bleary routine, and since calling Luke was completely out of the question, and anyone else she might have considered a friend was either dead or would call Luke immediately upon spotting Kilgrave in her apartment, she grew into a sense of isolation. Even Trish couldn't help, simply melding into another part of the scenery.

There was nothing else to be done, however, so the routine only continued, hopelessly unending, the days becoming bleaker and bleaker as the likelihood of finding more clues disappeared behind her.

* * *

On the other end of the spectrum, Malcolm Ducasse's life was beginning to look up.

He had gotten a job at a local pizza place as a delivery boy shortly after Kilgrave's demise. Intent on earning enough money to move into a better apartment, he was hardly at home, and all he saw of the apartment building was his bleary late-night impressions as he returned to his place and immediately collapsed into bed to prepare for the next day. He kept up with the Kilgrave survivors support group - they had monthly meetings now, and many of them had grown close. Those relationships began to take up most of his time outside of work. He saw very little of Jessica, and in some ways he was grateful for the distance. He of course often wished to speak with her, to check up on her after all that had happened, but their lives had separated just as quickly as they had intersected as they both became busier. As they both tried to move on from the events that had tied them together.

However, after several months of little to no contact, work eased up a little. It was slow season - as slow as pizza delivery got, anyhow - and despite his best efforts he found himself with more than one day off one week, and nothing to do but stay at home and reluctantly enjoy the free time.

He thought about visiting Jessica, then, even ventured into the hall to peer at her door. Beyond the glass he could see indistinct shapes moving around, quick and obviously preoccupied, so he gave up and moved on, choosing to call Robyn instead.

The next time he caught a glimpse of Jessica was as he was heading out to work and nearly crashed into her as she was walking into the apartment building with a few bags of groceries.

"Oh," he said, and although he'd thought for months about what he might say to her when they finally spoke again he found that any meaningful words had fled. "Jessica. How are you?"

She regarded him for a brief moment, shifting her weight thoughtfully. "I'm okay." She smiled a bare ghost of a smile, and he knew with a sinking feeling that she was lying. He'd hoped that she would be doing better after Kilgrave. But of course, he should have known that things weren't that simple. "What have you been up to?"

He pointed towards his work hat, smiling back sheepishly. "Got a job, you know, paying the bills."

"Good," she said, quietly but utterly serious. "Uh. I'm happy for you, Malcolm."

"Thanks," he replied, not sure what to make of the shadow her eyes suddenly took on as she spoke. "Um, are you sure you're okay?" She glared. "It's just, you know-"

"I appreciate the concern," she snapped. "It's just work. Look, I'll talk to you later, okay? Or not, if you don't want me to, that's kind of the impression I'm getting."

"We can talk," Malcolm insisted. "Jess-"

"Maybe it's better that we don't," she interjected, that shadow falling over her face once more as she brushed past him. "I'm sorry," he thought he heard her murmur.

Confused and worried but with nothing left to do, he continued on to work. The rest of the night he thought over what she had said, the strange look on her face, and the sinking feeling grew. By the end of his shift he felt nearly sick thinking about it, and walking back home from work was anxiety inducing.

However, when he finally reached the door to his apartment at almost midnight, he kept walking to the end of the hall, pausing to peer through the frosted window. Nothing stirred on the other side, but he took a deep breath and knocked anyway, swallowing down his nervousness.

Jessica was his friend, whether she seemed to think so or not.

His friend who wasn't home, he guessed, after nearly two minutes passed without any noise or movement from beyond the door. He jiggled the door handle, without thinking, and froze when it turned easily in his grip.

 _I shouldn't do this_ , he thought, but he slowly pushed the door open anyhow, stepping inside the apartment as if he was entering a war zone. The air felt odd, in a way he couldn't accurately describe - thin, tense, tight. Whatever it was, it made his hair stand on end ever so slightly, and the nerves he had so ruthlessly quashed rose up again within seconds.

"Jessica?" he called, hesitantly closing the door behind him. "Are you home? The door was unlocked, so I just...I'm sorry, I should go."

"No, no!" a voice said, from somewhere down the hall, and Malcolm's blood turned to ice in his veins. "She's here somewhere, the kitchen I think."

 _Don't be stupid_ , he berated himself, forcing his shoulders to relax as he heard the quiet footsteps in the hall quickly approaching. _You're getting worked up for no reason, just calm down. You're imagining it, it's just_ -

Kilgrave rounded the corner, tall and thin and dark, like a ghost or a phantom or a demon, and he _smiled_ when he caught sight of Malcolm frozen in the living room, who felt like any moment he would wake up, or his heart would stop, or both.

"Malcolm?" a slurred, sleep-ruffled Jessica said from behind him. He jumped, backing slowly away from the two of them, into the corner, not knowing where else to go. "Shit," Jessica rasped where she leaned in the kitchen doorway. "Shit. Malcolm...shit."

"Jessica?" he heard himself squeak as his back hit the wall. His heart felt like it would beat right out of his chest. He could hardly breathe. Kilgrave hadn't moved since Jessica had appeared, standing stock still at the entrance to the hallway as if he didn't want to startle anyone, but his very presence was rocking the entire world, it seemed.

"Shit," Jessica said again.

"You're drunk," Kilgrave accused in nothing more than a tired sigh.

"Shut up," she snarled at him. "Malcolm," she tried again, in a softer tone. "I know this looks...bad."

He wanted to make some kind of sarcastic comment, but the words wouldn't come. Even if he'd had them, his mouth was too dry to form anything useful anyhow. Anything except, "what the fuck is going on," apparently. He spat that out with ease, and if it came out shaky and faint Jessica didn't comment. His chest was unbearably, painfully tight, his heart hammering, his head spinning.

She only scrubbed a hand over her face and looked drunkenly frustrated. "Don't tell Luke," was all she could give as an explanation.

"What the fuck," he said again.

"Please don't faint," Kilgrave piped up, almost nervously. "It's going to be okay. Malcolm, is it? The biggest thing to understand is that Jessica hasn't done anything wrong, really...well, it would have been helpful if she'd informed more people of my existence, I suppose, but-"

"If you say my name again I'm going to hurt you," Jessica interrupted, deadly calm. Malcolm sunk against the wall, waiting for Kilgrave to silence her, to make Malcolm kill himself or kill her or burn down the building or-

"Right, sorry," Kilgrave responded, almost breezily. "I'll make tea, shall I? Everything's more pleasant with tea, I've found."

"I don't care, as long as you get out of this room," Jessica ground out. Malcolm watched in dizzy disbelief as Kilgrave entered the kitchen, very carefully not making any physical contact with Jessica on his way in, turned on the light, and began opening cupboards and getting out supplies. For tea.

Malcolm's knees chose that moment to give out, and he slid down the wall to the floor, his stomach twisting so violently he was sure he would throw up at any moment. He shivered and curled in on himself, bringing back unpleasant memories of his withdrawal all those months ago.

 _This is when I'll wake up_ , he thought. _Now. Now. Now, please, now_.

Jessica came and sat across from him, her movements sloppier than normal but her eyes sharp. "Malcolm, try to breathe, okay? Shit, I'm sorry."

"What are you doing?" he whispered. "How is he alive, how could you _do_ this?"

"I'm asking myself the same thing," she murmured back, rubbing her face again. "I don't know. All I know is that he's alive, and I have to figure out why. He doesn't have his powers, you know, or any memory of anything at all, so it's...we're safe. As we can be."

"What the fuck," Malcolm repeated. He propped his chin on his knees, closed his eyes, tried to breathe.

In the kitchen, he heard soft clanging noises, and the sound of pouring water.

"Are you okay?" Jessica pressed.

"How could I be okay? How the hell am I supposed to be _okay_?" He knew he sounded hysterical, but well...he was a little bit, actually. "The-the support group. All those people, they think he's dead, he hurt them, Jessica, how can you…" He opened his eyes to stare her down, and found her watching him. Her eyes were so terribly sorrowful it left him nearly breathless once more.

How could she make him feel bad for her when he was the one practically dying here? But he did. Oh, he did, so strongly it hurt.

"I know," she sighed. "I'm sorry. Trish is better at this than me, I can call her."

"Trish is in on this too?"

She looked at him for another moment before wordlessly getting up and grabbing her phone from the desk.

"Ginger or lemon?" Kilgrave called from the kitchen just as she began dialing.

"Go to hell," she said simply, and with a single dark look in Malcolm's direction, vanished into the hall.

 _Wake up_ , Malcolm ordered himself as he squeezed his eyes closed again. He pinched his arm, knocked his head three times against the wall, dug his nails into his palms, held his breath until his lungs were screaming. _Wake up_.

He only reopened his eyes when he heard the kettle squeal, watching the kitchen doorway.

After a few minutes of near silence, Kilgrave appeared again, holding two white mugs of steaming liquid. He simply stood in the entrance for a long moment, looking over Malcolm in a calculating, terrifying way before slowly approaching.

Malcolm had no choice but to sit and wait for whatever was to come.

Kilgrave sat where Jessica had been sitting just minutes earlier, setting a mug in front of Malcolm's feet and clutching one for himself. "I made ginger," he said, horrifyingly friendly, in something like a conspiratorial tone. "Lemon tea is all well and good, but from personal experience I can say that ginger tea is just right for occasions like this. Did you want any milk or sugar?" When Malcolm refused to respond, Kilgrave shrugged and took a sip of his tea. "It's fine black, too. Any tea is good tea."

While staring at the mug by his feet, wondering whether he should just take it and get it over with, Malcolm finally noticed the bulky object on one of Kilgrave's ankles, and its tiny, blinking red light.

"Are you admiring my lovely sensor there?" Kilgrave said. "I've been told I don't have the best taste for fashion, but even I know it's a bit of an eyesore. Not that I've seen enough people to get any comments about it." This last bit he said casually, but Malcolm detected the tiniest hint of bitterness in the words, enough to churn his stomach anew.

"How long have you been here?" Malcolm asked, relieved that the words emerged relatively calmly.

"Ohh...not too long. Over a week, for sure. It's a little difficult to tell - the first day or two or three are scrambled up so I can't be totally sure. I think almost two weeks. Or closing in on three, maybe. Blimey, that is a long time, actually." Suddenly brooding, he sipped at his tea again, his eyes going dark and far away.

Malcolm shuddered, on instinct alone.

They sat in silence for what seemed like ages. Jessica could be heard still talking to Trish in the hall, but she spoke too quietly to understand the words.

"What did I do to you?" Kilgrave asked, suddenly and quietly, making Malcolm flinch in surprise. The man still wasn't looking at him, staring somewhere off to Malcolm's left. He had his knees curled up close to his chest, strangely vulnerable.

"You really don't remember?"

Kilgrave sighed. "No."

Malcolm swallowed, rallied himself. "You got me addicted to heroin," he explained, firmly. His voice trembled slightly, his stomach turned, but he pressed on. "And paid me, fed my habit, so that I would follow Jessica, take pictures of her, and give them to you every day so that I could get my fix." He shuddered again, but was able to suppress it slightly this time.

Kilgrave said nothing, just kept staring. He took another sip of his tea.

It was beginning to feel more and more unreal, and somehow that made it easier.

Jessica finally got off the phone and came back into the room. "Trish is on her way," she reported. She narrowed her eyes at Kilgrave. "Get away from him. Right now."

Kilgrave blinked out of whatever trance he had apparently entered, and looked back at her. "We were just talking," he told her. His voice had gone dull, Malcolm noted with subdued curiosity. "I haven't so much as touched him."

"You don't have to," she snapped. "Move."

Reluctantly, bringing his tea with him, Kilgrave rose and stepped away, retreating back into the kitchen.

"This isn't happening," Malcolm breathed.

"I'm sorry," Jessica said again, short and angry, and swept out of the room.

* * *

When Malcolm awoke the next morning, he thought for a blissful moment that he had imagined it all. Somehow he'd started using again - unpleasant, but better than the alternative. Jessica had brought him into her apartment, set him up on her couch to ride out the high, and now he was waking up.

There would be another long, painful few days ahead of him, but at least...

He blinked his eyes open, and his heart nearly stopped.

Kilgrave was sat on the floor across the room, leaning against Jessica's desk, a bunch of tiny parts scattered around his legs. He held what looked like a mangled camera in one hand and a pair of tweezers in the other.

He was humming to himself, as innocently as anything.

"What are you doing?" Malcolm whispered, hardly believing the words even as they came out of his mouth.

Apparently unsurprised, Kilgrave looked up briefly and flashed a blinding smile before continuing his work. "Good morning," he greeted cheerfully. "Feeling any better?"

"No. Really, just...no."

He remembered how the night had really gone, now. Trish had come back to the apartment, set a fear-numbed Malcolm up on the couch with pillows and blankets, fed him, and helped Jessica keep Kilgrave out of his sight until he finally succumbed to sleep.

And now Kilgrave was apologizing, deadly serious. "I'm sorry. I can leave."

"It's fine. Whatever." Malcolm buried his face into the couch, trying desperately to escape back into sleep. "Doesn't make it any less real whether you're in the room or not." He could still hear Kilgrave working on _whatever_ it was he was doing, but the humming never started up again.

Eventually, Malcolm heard a soft click, and Kilgrave exclaim in a whisper, "Molto bene!" Then came the sound of velcro, then a drawer opening, then the drawer closing, and then a sigh.

"What did you do?" Malcolm asked resignedly, lifting his head again to find Kilgrave stretching.

"Fixed the camera," he explained. "It should have a much longer battery life now. Well, sort of longer. I did what I could. Which, to be fair, was quite a lot. She should get another two hours out of it now." He beamed, and rolled his shoulders.

"...Why?"

Kilgrave faltered, just slightly, before shrugging and moving towards the kitchen. "Why not? I'm easily bored, but there's always _something_ to be done." He paused in the doorway, brightened noticeably. "Ooh, I could do the microwave next. All sorts of fun, that. I could add a setting for...well, I can figure it out. Do you want tea? You didn't drink it last night, although I can understand why, but if you're willing we can try again." He vanished fully into the kitchen.

"I...I'm good."

"Breakfast?"

"...No."

"Oh, come on, no breakfast? It's the most important meal of the day. We have eggs, cereal, bread for toast, macaroni if you fancy lunch food instead...carrots, salad...lots of alcohol, as long as you don't mind facing Jessica's wrath over it...that's not real breakfast, though, I would _not_ recommend that-"

Bewildered, Malcolm stammered, "Why are you doing this?"

Kilgrave didn't respond. Moments later, the kettle shrieked and Malcolm heard water pouring, cupboards opening and closing, and then more silence.

"What else is there to do?" Kilgrave finally replied, in a darker tone than Malcolm had heard from him so far. Dark enough to send pure terror curling in his stomach, to start his heart pounding madly in his chest like it wanted to break through his ribcage.

"Anyway," Kilgrave went on, now appallingly brightly. "If you'd rather I not make it, I can recruit Trish! She's a marvelous cook, really. Makes a mean scrambled egg. Or so I guess - I haven't had any so far. Jessica seems to like them, you probably would too."

"I'm really not hungry," Malcolm insisted.

Sighing in apparent frustration, Kilgrave gave in. "Fine, fine." He re-emerged with another mug of tea clutched in hands, and took a seat on the couch with it, curling up so that his head could have rested on his knees. "So, Mr. Malcolm. Tell me about yourself! I'm dying to know."

Despite what Jessica had told him, about Kilgrave's powers being gone, Malcolm still expected the words to burst forth from him, those black hands to pull him into darkness again, to wrench his will away. But nothing happened. His mouth didn't open, he felt nothing unusual or dark inside of him. Kilgrave didn't seem to expect anything of the sort either - just sitting and waiting with wide, curious eyes.

"No," Malcolm told him, just because he could. The word swelled in him, even after it was spoken, bright and unbelievable. "No."

* * *

 **Hope you all enjoyed!**

 **Cat's doing better! We aren't out of the woods yet but it's looking a lot more hopeful. :) So I'm feeling pretty good about that.**

 **And _in addition_ to that, I also officially finished this story! I almost can't believe it. I'm really excited for you guys to read it, and I hope you're looking forward to it. I haven't finished editing it all yet, so things could still change, but the rough draft is, in total, 22 chapters and an epilogue. Pretty sure this is going to be my longest story yet!**

 **Anyway, please leave me your thoughts/critiques/anything else, I appreciate it! I've been meaning to reply to comments, but I haven't gotten around to it yet! I'll try to do that soon. Thanks guys!**


	8. Chapter 8

**Chapter 8**

The Doctor liked Malcolm. It was really too bad that Malcolm (or anyone else, for that matter) didn't really like him.

The man came over on a fairly regular basis now. Once every few days, generally. He and Jessica had seemed to come up with some kind of agreement, and the Doctor found himself watching as their relationship repaired itself in front of him. Malcolm seemed equally as dedicated to finding out what had happened to Kilgrave as Jessica, and each time he dropped by he had information. Not always useful, but information nonetheless.

Well, maybe it wasn't useful to Jessica. The Doctor, however, found some bits of it quite interesting indeed.

"More of this gang stuff," she was mumbling, currently, from her bedroom. The two were obviously trying to be discreet with their meetings, but the Doctor was lucky enough to have both enhanced hearing and the ability to innocently, apparently oblivious to the world around him, busy himself with another task while listening to everything being said.

He dutifully scrubbed at the dirty dishes in Jessica's sink, and kept a careful ear on her conversation.

"People keep getting kidnapped," Malcolm defended. "I thought, well, maybe it's not pertinent to this situation exactly, but I figured you might be interested."

Jessica sighed, rustling papers (photos Malcolm had taken, the Doctor gathered). "I'm just trying to mostly worry about this one thing, Malcolm. I really don't have time for any kind of lengthy case."

"It might have something to do with him, though," Malcolm suggested. "Maybe they're trying to catch him, or at least find him."

"By kidnapping random strangers?"

"Maybe it's not random."

Silence. The Doctor could practically feel the gears turning in Jessica's head.

"Maybe they're the ones who saw him while he was on the streets," Malcolm continued, encouraged, "and that's why you haven't found any information."

 _Brilliant_ , the Doctor thought, smiling to himself. _Wrong, of course, but brilliant all the same_.

Jessica grumbled something. Then, louder, said, "I should've thought of that. Dammit."

"It might not be entirely right," Malcolm hedged, "but it's a start. Just a thought. Either way, I know you might need, uh...the cash. It's something to look into. You've got, you know, other responsibilities."

"You mean looking after the rapist living in my house?" she snarked, false humor disguising a lingering horror and disgust.

Obviously unsure how he was supposed to respond, Malcolm said nothing.

The sensor felt suddenly much heavier than it had before. The Doctor kept scrubbing his dishes, biting his tongue to fend off a wave of discomfort.

 _Kidnappings, though_ , he thought _, that's interesting._

"Well, I don't know what you want to do with that," Malcolm finally piped up. "But I'll keep looking around."

Reluctantly, as all of her expression of thankfulness, Jessica muttered a 'thank you' and the Doctor heard both sets of footsteps headed down the hall. Quickly, he re-immersed himself in his dish-washing.

He listened as Malcolm opened and closed the door, leaving the Doctor and Jessica alone once again in the tiny apartment. The Doctor finished the plate he was working on and set it carefully to the side to begin work on another.

"What are you doing?" Jessica questioned, tiredly.

"Washing dishes," the Doctor explained, cheerfully enough that he could practically feel Jessica frowning in disgust behind him. "They were just sitting there, I needed something to do, and here we are." As he gave one last scrub to his current dish, Jessica came up beside him to oversee his progress. Or, more likely, to make sure he wasn't up to anything nefarious. "Look," he said, flashing his finished plate at her after a quick rinse. "All shiny and clean, how nice is that?" He set it to the side with the other clean dishes and started in on a grimy cup.

"I don't know if you've picked up on it at all," she remarked, low and nearly threatening, "but I don't like you touching my shit."

"Only trying to help," he reminded. "Besides, it's not like you were going to do them." He set the cup aside and pulled the plug on the drain, the water hissing down and away. "I'm sorry, for what it's worth. But it's done now. I won't do it again, if you really don't want me to." Finally, he made himself meet her eyes, finding them turning with something conflicting and dark and fearful.

She said nothing, only left the kitchen, grabbing her coat, scarf, and camera. The door slammed behind her hard enough to rattle the frame.

The Doctor dried his hands, ignoring a twinge of guilt, and crept off to her room to find Malcolm's photos. She had left them in a messy pile on her bed, apparently unconcerned that he would snoop around. They were all pretty much the same - badly lit, featuring a group of intimidating-looking figures and large black vehicles. In two or three, there was a flash of color, a hand reaching out beyond the mass of people as if grasping desperately for help. The pictures drew out a story of this newest kidnapping. The vehicle was loaded up with the victim and the kidnappers, and quickly disappeared. No license plate, the Doctor noted with interest.

"How have you not gotten caught in the middle of New York City with no license plate?" he puzzled, flipping through the disturbing storyboard again. "How long have you been at it, hm? Quite a while, for Jessica to have taken notice. And surely the police will be paying attention to these kidnappings, so why has nobody been caught? Perception filter, maybe, assuming Malcolm is simply incredibly observant." He peered closely at the shapes. "Can't even tell if you're human, from these..."

He dropped the photos, spreading them out similarly to how they'd been when he found them, and returned to the kitchen. He had just reached up for the tea when there was a thunderous knocking at the door.

 _Oh_ , he thought, lowering his arms. _Not good_.

He didn't move, hoping that they might give up, but they continued to knock. They would stop for a few moments, waiting for some kind of response, then start up again just as loudly for another few moments.

His eyes flashed to the half-dry dishrag by the sink. The knocking paused, then continued. He took the rag, tied it quickly around his ankle to disguise the sensor, and poked his head out of the kitchen doorway to catch a glimpse of the figure through the front door's glass.

The most he could tell was that it was a woman, dark-haired, tall, and obviously impatient. He ran a hand through his hair, pushing it up to its usual volume, and went to the door.

The handle was cold and inviting and promising in his grasp as he turned it, and swung open the door to meet the woman outside.

"Sorry about the wait," he chirped. "Alias Investigations - I'm the Doctor."

The woman, now revealed to be sharp-featured, with small, frustrated brown eyes, huffed, "Finally! And what kind of a name is 'the Doctor?' I thought this was a professional business. I'm supposed to be meeting with Jessica Jones."

The Doctor carefully kept his sensor and its makeshift disguise out of her line of sight. "Ah, of course. Unfortunately, she had to run out, deal with another case. Came out of the blue, it did, a right emergency...here, come in, you've been out there long enough." He pulled back to allow her to step inside. "Are you a fan of tea, Ms...?"

"Finch," she filled in, as huffy as ever.

"Ms. Finch, then. We have ginger and lemon. Fancy a cup?"

She eyed him disdainfully. "No. I'm here to discuss business, not have _tea_."

"Right, of course," he said. "Here, come sit." Even her bad attitude couldn't dampen his spirits - here he was, talking to a real human being, who talked to him not like a murderer, or a villain, but a person. It was practically revolutionary! Hearts skipping excitedly, he sat her down in front of Jessica's desk, and took Jessica's usual seat for himself. He had been here before, while Jessica met with clients - he knew how this was supposed to go. Sure, he hid in the bedroom during each exchange, but that didn't mean he couldn't listen in. He almost propped his feet up on the desk before catching himself.

"Well," he continued, relishing in each word. "What can I do to help?"

It was almost like being free.

* * *

Before he knew it, he had filled two pages of paper with information, and Ms. Finch was on her way out the door. He was alone again, but this was a new brand of alone - a productive one.

He guessed that Jessica would be back soon, but he had just enough time to flip through all that he had learned and form a clearer picture of the situation.

Ms. Finch's grandson had been one of the new kidnappees. He was young, only 17, apparently with a promising future ahead of him. Just ready to graduate when he had been swiped away from his life without warning. The Doctor could hardly imagine the kind of pain that was causing Ms. Finch, let alone the boy himself.

His name was Brett. He had been walking to the home of none other than Ms. Finch herself when he had gone missing. Police claimed they were looking for him, but so far they had found nothing. Ms. Finch was not confident in their efforts. Despite her apparent worry, however, it had been more than a week since the event.

The Doctor flipped again through Malcolm's photos, mind churning. Something was definitely wrong. Surely a boy going missing would attract attention - especially an otherwise fortunate boy, a boy with so much to look forward to. There would be no reason for him to run away, so shouldn't the police be more concerned? And yet...

He stared for several minutes at the photos, as if somehow that would help him find something that he had failed to notice before. No such luck, of course.

Almost too late, he heard the footsteps approaching the apartment, and fled with the pictures and his notes to Jessica's bedroom. He threw what he'd stolen back onto the bed, less carefully than before, and stowed the notes between the mattress and the bed frame. Just as the door handle jiggled, unlocking, and the door creaked open, the Doctor dashed into the bathroom and shut the door.

He felt daring and clever, for the first time in a long time. His head spun, just slightly, but it only added to the thrill. It was almost sad, how exciting he found such a small act of rebellion but, well...it was enough for the moment.

"Hello?" Jessica called, voice ringing with suspicion at the silence.

"Yes, I'm in the bathroom!" the Doctor replied, catching a glimpse of himself in the mirror and grinning. He flushed the empty toilet and rinsed his hands before cheerfully exiting. Upon entering the living room again, he found Jessica sitting where he had been sitting at her desk, cracking open her laptop and casting a brief glance at him.

"The seat's warm," she noted, shortly.

"Ah...sorry. I just wanted to try it," he said breezily. "It's quite a nice chair, very...cushy. Perfect for privately investigating, as you do. I can see why you use it." She glared. "How was your little outing?"

"Pretty much worthless," she admitted in a grumble. "Malcolm gave me this kidnapping case..." she trailed off, scowling into the distance. "Not a single lead."

"Well." He took the chair Ms. Finch had sat in, and was finally able to prop his feet on the desk. Jessica continued her glaring, unamused. However, she didn't protest, or even react as fearfully as she did when he did most anything else. Clearly her adventure, despite its fruitlessness, had somewhat calmed her. "That's too bad. Frustrating stuff, this investigating, hm? Must be."

Her gaze flickered down, then hardened. "What's on your ankle?"

"Ah." _How could I have forgotten_? "Just a...I was tired of it blinking. You know, it's annoying and all. Obnoxious." He waved a hand dismissively, but already knew she didn't believe him.

"It's a little wet," she pointed out. "That can't be comfortable."

"Oh, well...it's no bother," he said weakly. "I'm tough, me. Thick skin. Little dampness never hurt me." Still, he untied it and folded it unevenly in his lap. True enough, the fabric around the sensor was now slightly wet, enough to be itchy and unpleasant. He hadn't even noticed.

Jessica continued to glare. Impatient and expectant.

The Doctor sighed. "Someone might have also come to visit. I was trying to save you from being arrested, you know. I was doing you a favor, really."

She kept waiting.

"It was a woman," he supplied after a moment of tense silence. "Her name is Ms. Finch, and her grandson just went missing."

"Great," Jessica breathed. "Fucking great." She stood and paced away to her room. The Doctor thought he detected a slight tremor in her hands, and watched her progress with concern. "You looked at the pictures, didn't you?" she snapped from down the hall.

"Maybe a little," he admitted. "For purely research purposes. Did you notice the license plates? Or lack thereof."

She returned, carding through the photos aggressively. "I'm not new to this, so yes."

"Why do you think they haven't been arrested yet?"

She threw the pictures down on the desk and huffed. "If I knew, I would be hunting down whoever was responsible, wouldn't I?"

The Doctor could tell she was frazzled, so decided not to beat around the bush. "Would you like to see my notes?"

"You shouldn't have even answered the fucking door in the first place," she spat. She growled some other profanity under her breath, probably cursing him personally, but she never looked up again. Didn't look him in the eyes. "You're supposed to sit here and wait for me to figure out what happened to you, and not do anything. You aren't supposed to interfere, you aren't supposed to help. Don't you understand that you shouldn't even be here at all? You should be dead."

Finally, she glanced up, and her expression was so overwhelmingly pained the Doctor had to catch his breath. Her lip didn't wobble, but her eyes were alarmingly glinty, and he suspected with a sinking feeling that, in her own way, she was near tears.

"I know," he said. "I'm sorry."

"Jesus." She swallowed, her lip curling. "Stop. You can apologize all you want, but that's never going to make it okay. What you did? To me, to Malcolm, to Trish, to everyone? It's never going away. I don't care if you never remember. It's going to follow you, forever. I'm not going to forget. A thousand 'sorry's won't fix anything."

Each word scooped a hole in him, deeper and more devastating than the worst of his hunger. "I know," he said again, and he did. It was why he was still here, after all. He thought about leaving every day; he would stare out the window and have a little debate with himself. And always, always, the guilt won out.

If he left, they would come looking for him. They'd be afraid, they'd go on a manhunt. If for nothing else but their sanity, he had to stay until this was resolved. After all the distress he'd already caused (and might cause in his future), he wanted to avoid any more of it if he could help it.

Jessica set her jaw. The two of them sat in silence, the Doctor watching his captor quietly struggle with something inside of herself, one of those sharp little pieces that Kilgrave had created. Five minutes of absolute silence passed before she finally snapped, "Get the notes. And if you're going to help, at least try not to be an asshole about it."

He wanted to say something - something to cheer her up, or cheer himself up, or distract from the continued twist of loss and uncertainty overtaking the apartment. Instead, he simply got up and retrieved the notes.

Maybe it was good, in a way, he considered as he watched her skim through what he'd written. When she glanced up, there was some regained amount of calm, and when she spoke, it was very nearly like she was speaking to an equal.

"What else did she say?" Jessica asked, and the Doctor almost smiled.

* * *

 **Thanks for reading! Slightly later update time today, because I'm on spring break and my schedule's been thrown off! But I'm thinking of updating again later this week, because I'll actually have the time lol.**

 **So, as usual, let me know what you think! Adding in some real plot now, to spice things up. :) I appreciate all your feedback!**


	9. Chapter 9

**Chapter 9**

Trish set the phone down in front of him, stepping back while he lifted it reverently and turned it over in his hands.

"It's very...colorful," the Doctor remarked, tracing the lines of red on the case. "Why does it only have three buttons, exactly?" He tapped experimentally against the thick glass of the screen - much too thick for touch-screen capabilities.

"It's for kids," Jessica flatly informed from her vantage point across the room. "It does nothing else but receive calls."

"Well, you can call me and Jessica," Trish clarified. The Doctor pressed the center button and the screen lit up. "Our numbers are programmed in." True enough, both of their names popped up, and the buttons on either side of the home button scrolled between the two of them.

"Don't call unless it's an emergency," Jessica griped. She retreated into the kitchen, mumbling something about getting a drink.

Trish bit her lip. "You understand that we're trusting you, right?" she said. "This is..." she blew a frustrated breath out of her cheeks. "We're trusting you."

"I want to help," the Doctor reiterated. As he watched, the screen dimmed into sleep mode again.

"Christ," Jessica could be heard grumbling as she closed a cupboard door. Liquid sloshed. "I can't believe we're doing this."

Trish just shook her head. "He wants to help," she repeated. "We need help. What else is there to do?"

"Not this?" Jessica growled. But although she glared as she emerged from the kitchen, she didn't steal the phone back.

"If I was going to rat you out," the Doctor pointed out, "I would have done so when Ms. Finch came by. Perfect opportunity. And yet we're all still here."

"You're going to regret helping when you start getting calls at all hours of the night from assholes who think you have unlimited time," Jessica promised darkly. She stalked toward her desk and began flipping through papers angrily.

The Doctor spread his hands. "Well...I do have unlimited time, fortunately for them."

"But _you're_ not leaving to go investigate. That's my job. And I _don't_." She took another swig. "When someone calls, you're not going to confirm or deny that we'll be taking their case, okay? You're going to write their name down," she stabbed a finger at a small notepad, "their number, and then you're going to give the list to me at the end of the day, or whenever I run out of cases."

The orders flew harshly, but the Doctor was too thrilled to have something to do to mind her tone. "Yessir," he quipped, and saluted. He found himself grinning - that old charming grin that had never faded, not throughout any of his bodies. It wasn't happiness, exactly, that rose up in him as he glanced over the phone again and pondered his new responsibilities, but it was so tantalizingly close it could almost be considered so.

"So I'm going to be your secretary then?" he supposed. The little grin wouldn't tear itself off his face.

"Sure," Jessica sighed. "My murdering asshole secretary."

The words stung, as they always did - almost moreso because Jessica didn't know how true they were. She knew only about what Kilgrave had done ( _what you might do in the future_ , his brain helpfully added). She had no idea about the kind of extremes the Doctor had found himself at throughout his life. She didn't know about his companions, about Gallifrey. The not-knowing made it worse. He couldn't imagine how she would react were she to find out the truth of him. More reason for him to keep it to himself, really.

"Maybe I should order new business cards for you," Trish suggested, in a tone almost playful.

Jessica rolled her eyes. "Trish, please-"

"I know it's only temporary - but it wouldn't be that many! You could even just print them on regular paper, if you wanted to be cheap. Come on, Jess-"

The Doctor chose to tune them out, standing and walking past them, slipping his new most prized possession into his pocket as he did so. Their voices edged from serious to warm as he retreated into the kitchen.

 _If I could hide in here forever to keep Jessica Jones smiling, I would_ , he thought as he heard the woman loose a strange noise that was almost a laugh at one of Trish's comments. He filled Jessica's rusty kettle with water and set it on the little stove. He pulled the tea bags from where they sat on the bottom shelf of one of the cupboards, selected ginger, and placed the remainder back. Trish huffed her own near-laugh in the hallway. The Doctor reached up into a different cupboard for a mug.

He made it a little over halfway up before a swing of light-headedness swept him nearly to the floor. He dizzily caught the edge of the counter. Trish and Jessica's conversation faded to distant, ringing mumbles, like the far away white noise of a train. The Earth's spinning went alarmingly away for an eternity and a half while he stood and tried to find his way back to himself, tried to step from the graying edges of his vision into the yellowed kitchen light.

He took a shaky breath, feeling pinpricks of sweat on his forehead, and dread like acid in the back of his throat. The train noise crystallized into English, into "do you want me to stay" and "call me in the morning." The kettle whistled.

His hands shook, but with a little bit of focus he could make them still. He took a few cautious steps toward the sink to rinse a dirty mug, and then a few more steps back to pour the water and set the tea bag in to steep.

Before he had the chance to overthink it, he took an apple from Jessica's counter and bit into it. It filled his mouth, juicy and almost sickly sweet, but he forced himself to eat nearly half of it before tossing the rest. He thought, stupidly, that maybe his body would jump back into action after the fresh influx of energy, but even with his advanced physiology that was impossible. It didn't stop him from hoping, however.

Trish and Jessica were still talking. "-serious about the business cards?" Jessica sighed.

"Sure," Trish replied, soft and earnest. "Of course, Jess. It's really not a big deal. And we can put the number in the phone book, too-"

The Doctor tossed the tea bag next, and choked down a gulp of the too-hot tea. It left his mouth and throat raw, but at least he could focus on that instead of his shaking hands, or his wobbly knees, or how he had to lean on the counter to stay upright.

He felt for the new phone in his pocket. There was that, at least - the tiniest bit of hope he could keep with him. Physical evidence that things were changing, maybe. That his efforts were paying off. Trust was being earned.

Finally, Trish's heels sounded as she entered the living room. She cast only a cursory glance into the kitchen at the Doctor before she left. Jessica followed close behind to lock the door. Trish either didn't notice his change in demeanor, or didn't care enough to make a comment.

Jessica, however, apparently saw it fit to remark, "You look like a ghost," as she swept by on the way to her desk. He heard her open drawers, heard the click of a pen and the sound of it scrawling on paper.

He groped for a witty response, but instead had to resort to taking another gulp of tea.

"Well?" she prompted after a moment. She tried to sound breezy, but the words came out stiff. "Care to explain?"

The Doctor cleared his throat. "If you must know, I thought I was going to be sick. Not sure why...must've had something rotten recently. No big deal, really."

Jessica huffed. "Don't puke on my shit."

The Doctor closed his eyes. They burned, just slightly, begging to remain shut. "Noted."

She left on the notepad what little information she had gathered that day on the kidnappings, and by unspoken rule he waited until she had taken her liquor and shut herself in her room to head over and flip through the new developments.

It was easier to ignore his churning stomach with a case to examine.

* * *

They kept getting calls. Or rather, the Doctor would get calls, write down the caller's information, then pass it on to Jessica, who would call them back.

All of the calls so far had been about the continuing kidnappings.

"Was he acting at all strangely before he went missing?" the Doctor asked the man currently on the line. It felt like the millionth time those words had left his mouth.

" _No_ ," the caller sighed. " _He just...went missing. Listen, can you help me or not?"_

"I can pass you on to Ms. Jones," he promised, "that's all I can guarantee. But I know she'll do her best. You aren't the only one this has happened to. What's the name and phone number, if you don't mind?"

It went like that, mostly. Some people got angry, some got upset, some stayed nearly emotionless throughout. Some hung up in the middle of the Doctor's reply. Some wanted to stay on the line and be reassured until the next call came in. Whatever the case was, it was easy to become frustrated.

The Doctor scribbled down the man's information - the third call he'd gotten so far that day - and ended the exchange with a cheerful, "We'll get back to you soon!"

Jessica was gone, out investigating further. The Doctor's ineffectual little phone couldn't text, but he made frequent use of Jessica's voicemail, and did so once more.

"We've got another case!" he chirped after the beep. "Mr. Walter Hart, his brother Roger went missing. Roger is a college-student, was going to school somewhere nearby." He rattled off the phone number and ended the message.

Then, continuing the work he'd been doing before the call, he began arranging all of the kidnapping information on a timeline, adding what little Walter Hart had been able to give him onto the paper.

"Monica Highland, 29 years old," he read off. "Brandon Smith, 45, Brett Finch, 17, Maria Lopez, 62, Roger Hart, 21, Carrie Barret, 13, Magaret Black, 33, Rachel Weathers, 50, Aaron James, 19..." He trailed off towards the end of the list, shaking his head. "No connections between age, race, or class," he mused. "Bizarre." His gaze flicked back to Malcolm's photos - the unidentified vehicle, the dark crowd of shapes.

The phone rang again. _Hart, Walter_ , the ID read.

The Doctor frowned, and picked up.

* * *

Jessica pulled away from the warmth of Luke's chest when the phone rang for the third time. "Jesus," she muttered. She pushed away the sheets, much to Luke's displeasure if his aggravated grunt was anything to go by, and snatched her phone off the floor.

"Seems like someone wants to talk to you," Luke hummed. The blankets shifted as he sat up. Jessica took half a second to admire his naked torso before turning back to her phone. _Asshole_ , the caller ID read.

"Dammit," she mumbled. Of course, she had already guessed who it was. It was another thing to have it confirmed, however - for work to come butting in, _again_ , on her little bit of personal time. To have _him_ butting in again.

"What's wrong?"

Her heart skipped a beat. "Just work." She clambered fully out of the bed, threw the phone onto the nightstand, and began to pull her jeans back on. The phone vibrated plaintively, loudly, against the wood.

"'Asshole,'" Luke read aloud. "Nasty client?"

"Something like that," she muttered. She imagined Kilgrave back at the apartment as the call finally went to voicemail, pulling a pained expression and pacing around the floor. Asshole he was, but it was obviously urgent.

He didn't seem to bother to leave a message. A few blissfully silent seconds passed, while Jessica slipped her shirt over her head, before the buzzing began anew.

Luke reached for it, as if to answer and get it over with, but Jessica snatched the phone from his reach before he could make it too far. "Sorry," she said, "client confidentiality."

"You can trust me," he smirked. And he didn't seem to read the lie in her voice - either he had actually begun to trust her, after everything, or she was an even better liar than she'd previously thought. She hoped it was the latter - the first option was far too painful to consider, now that she was breaking his trust yet again.

She smirked back, as if it was a game, as if his wife's murderer wasn't sleeping on her couch and eating her food and helping her with her cases. And calling her, where she stood in Luke's home, the place where his wife had lived, where she was about to pick up.

She pressed an icon on her screen and pressed the phone to her ear. "What the hell do you want?"

" _Oh, thank Rass- thank God!"_ Kilgrave practically cried. " _I've been calling and calling - what are you doing?"_

"That's not any of your business," she snapped. "I'll ask again - what the hell do you want?"

" _If I told you I may have made some kind of breakthrough on the case, what would you say?"_

"Spit it out."

 _"The kidnappers are using some kind of memory-loss agent_."

She couldn't help but scoff. "What are you talking about?"

" _Think about it_ ," he urged. " _It usually takes a week for the close family of the missing person to report that they're gone. I just talked to Walter Hart, who sees his brother Roger every day. When Roger didn't show up one day, without notice, Walter should have called him, or gone over to his flat, or even just brought it up in some conversation with_ someone _. But for some reason, he waited_ days _to mention it. And when he finally did, it went like it should have gone the first day. He called friends and other family, who only just seemed to realize it themselves, before he ran off to the police. Strange, isn't it?"_

"You're crazy," Jessica groaned, rubbing her forehead and ignoring Luke's intrigued eyes. But Kilgrave was right. Goddammit, he was right.

" _That's not the only case,_ " he insisted. _"It's just the most obvious. The others didn't see their missing person every day, so it makes a little more sense that they would wait. But Walter Hart - ohh, Walter Hart - he's the key to all this."_

"You need more evidence than that," Jessica pushed. "I'm not saying I don't...believe you, or whatever. Maybe he's just irresponsible. What did he say when you brought this up?"

Kilgrave paused. " _It just didn't occur to him to be worried_."

Fury curled hot and acidic in Jessica's chest, and when she huffed out a sigh she was half sure it would be made of mostly smoke. "Fuck," she bit out. "Either he's psychotic-"

 _"Didn't seem to be."_

"-or there's something else shitty going on."

" _He didn't even really remember to tell me the first time he called_ ," Kilgrave informed. " _He did come to his senses, and called back not long after, though. Guilty, I suspect. He must feel terrible, not noticing for such a long time. He sounded sort of hysterical at that, poor bloke."_

"I'm on my way," she said, and hung up.

As she shrugged on her coat, Luke sat up fully. "Sounds serious," he said. "That how you usually talk to clients?"

 _I don't have time for this_ , she thought wildly. _I don't want to lie to you anymore, goddammit_. "It's complicated," she half-growled. Her chest felt tight and clenched. "And you know - I'm kind of a bitch. I have to go."

He looked disappointed, ever so slightly, but he didn't say another word as she rushed guiltily out the door.

 _I'm sorry_ , she didn't say, although the words wanted nothing more than to crawl out of her mouth and pour themselves into the air. She hailed a cab and forced her address out instead.

 _I'm sorry_.

* * *

 **Sorry this is out so much later than usual. I've had an eventful 24 hours lol.**

 **And I swear, I really was intending to update again over my spring break, but we had the _amazing_ surprise of our power going out for about 2 days, and at that point we were so close to Monday already I figured it wasn't worth it. Sorry!**

 **Let me know what you think! Keep those reviews coming, I love to hear from you all! :)**


	10. Chapter 10

**This chapter is kind of violent - the Doctor is getting frustrated. It's nothing too graphic, but there are some actions that could be construed as self-harm (of a sort), although it's not on purpose.**

* * *

 **Chapter 10**

The Doctor fought to ignore his rebelling body as he, Malcolm, and Jessica reviewed their notes. Or rather, Malcolm and Jessica reviewed the notes while the Doctor hovered close by and tried not to feel left out.

He was feeling that way more and more often, these days. Despite everything, despite the little opportunities to be more than just a nuisance, he just kept feeling worse.

"So it's probably pretty likely that, even though we haven't been able to find any connection to the victims, they all knew this person, right?" Malcolm puzzled. "I mean, somehow the kidnappers had access to the victims' families, to give them this memory-loss drug. Right?"

"Or they just broke in," Jessica mumbled. "But yeah, that's definitely a possibility." She growled something indistinct under her breath, that was lost to the sound of the Doctor's bare feet pacing on the floor.

He was dying to offer up his input, but he didn't think they would much appreciate it. They both had their backs to him, a clear dismissal, but he couldn't bring himself to walk away. There were a lot of questions he could ask that could determine if the kidnappers were even human - a fact that Jessica and Malcolm hadn't even considered. He couldn't blame them, but...well, it wasn't very helpful. To him or to them. But there wasn't much he could do about that, not without making things unpleasant, either for him or them or everyone.

Not at this point. He'd let it all go so far, and now he wasn't sure he could get out. That particular thought sent a curl of cold dread deep into his stomach.

"We could ask for a list of their contacts, see if they have any in common," Malcolm suggested.

Jessica nodded, sharp and brief. "Why not," she said. "Hey!" She whirled around to the Doctor, pointing a finger at him. He nearly lost his balance as he stopped mid-step to face her. He tried not to look too relieved at the distraction. "Either leave, or sit down," she ordered. "You aren't helping."

"I want to," the Doctor reminded her. He tried not to sound too desperate. "What can I do?"

"Be quiet," Jessica snapped. "Take calls if they come. The usual."

"What if I have an idea?" the Doctor tried again.

Jessica eyed him, taking a calming breath before speaking. She didn't look like she didn't believe him, exactly. More that she didn't want to hear his voice. "Do you?"

He almost said it: _aliens_. But he held his tongue, clenching his jaw instead and staring back at her with as much of a plea on his face as he could stomach.

"Yeah," she said, turning away again to flip through her papers. "Right."

The Doctor scowled, frustration and restlessness bubbling in his chest. But he took a breath of his own, and went to sit on the couch, safely away from any progress that could possibly have been made. Even sitting, his body didn't like him. His head spun, just enough to be irritating. Enough that he knew he should eat something.

He just...didn't really want to bother. He might miss something important. He pushed it aside, as he usually did, and tried to focus on the conversation going on on the other side of the room. There would be time, later.

"I still can't figure out the license plates," Jessica growled. "It doesn't make sense, not unless they're using the drug on every person they come across."

"Yeah, no, that wouldn't be cost-effective," Malcolm agreed. "These kidnappers are smart, right? They aren't going to use their resources unnecessarily."

The Doctor nodded, although they couldn't see him, as if he could somehow encourage them along with his thoughts alone.

"Maybe just the police force, then?" Jessica suggested. "This stuff apparently works for up to a week at a time, so that's entirely possible."

Malcolm nodded furiously, apparently coming to the same conclusion the Doctor just had. "Didn't you say that a lot of the victims' families said that the police weren't very helpful, overall? That they didn't seem very concerned."

"Shit," Jessica muttered, "that's right."

"Maybe we can find them by the police station sometime, then?" Malcolm suggested. "I can keep a lookout, try and get some pictures in the next few days, if I can."

It was good news. The Doctor knew that. He even felt a little spark of hope at the idea that they were getting closer to figuring it all out, but that was all - a spark. It didn't ignite anything in him, and faded as quickly as it had come. Jessica and Malcolm were still talking, Jessica gesturing with her hands in a way that said she, too, was hesitantly hopeful about it all. But their voices felt far away and separate from him, as if he'd walked to another room.

He blinked, tried to refocus. And again. A faint alarm froze in his chest, but it, too, felt apart from himself.

"You're always wanting to make tea," Malcolm was saying. The Doctor realized that _he_ was the one being addressed, and jerked to attention while trying not to look like that's what he was doing. Malcolm was giving him the most cautious of looks, with the most cautious of humors in his voice.

"Er," the Doctor said. He fought for something to say, some appropriate response to the one part of the conversation he'd caught.

"Don't encourage him," Jessica grumbled to Malcolm. She didn't look up from the notes she had busied herself with organizing.

"He might as well do _something_ ," Malcolm said. Which, okay, stung a little bit.

He was _trying_ to do something. He thought he'd established that.

"You want me to make tea," the Doctor determined, pushing away his blooming frustration, watching Malcolm's face for any sign of sarcasm. Remarkably, he found none. Was this supposed to be some kind of reward, for whatever small part they'd allowed him to play in their new discovery?

Malcolm shrugged. "Sure." He cast a significant look at Jessica. "We need to take a break from staring at this stuff, so...why not."

It still seemed like some kind of trick, but the Doctor stood (slowly, so as to not aggravate his head), and obligingly went to the kitchen. As he gathered the supplies, careful to not repeat his earlier experience with near-fainting at the counter, he listened to the indistinct whispers coming from the living room, and felt his hearts stutter.

 _They're allowed their privacy_ , he reminded himself, but his hands shook as he took out the mugs.

He poured the water in the kettle, set it on the stove, and leaned on the counter to wait. He crossed his arms over his chest and listened to them talk. Obviously, if they'd wanted him to leave, it was sensitive information that they thought he shouldn't hear. They had their reasons. If he was human, he probably wouldn't have been able to hear them from the kitchen, anyway. For all he _should_ have known, Malcolm had genuinely wanted him to make tea.

He still felt ridiculous for believing it.

 _900 years, and all you're good for is traumatizing abuse survivors and making tea_ , he thought.

Waiting turned into dizzy pacing, attempting to drown out the taunting whispers. Faster and faster. He almost expected someone to come in and demand he stop again, but no one ever did. Out of sight, out of mind, he was.

Maybe it was for the best. When he was ignored, at least, despite his own discomfort, it was easier on the rest of them.

He just...he thought things had been getting easier. That they were trusting him with things, just a little more. That he'd been helping. He'd been trying so hard, after all. Pushing all of his pent-up energy, borne out of his captivity, into helping, into being as useful as he could be.

He stopped when the kettle whistled and, half-blindly, poured the tea into one mug, and then the next, and picked up the last.

A few stray drops of near-boiling water escaped, catching on his hand. He remembered, as sharply as if it was playing out in front of him again, another time, another burn. Rose, laughing at his mistake, before prying the kettle and mug from his hands. Putting them down and grabbing some burn cream they'd learned to keep in the kitchen after earlier cooking mishaps. Smiling at him with amusement lingering in her eyes as he pouted back, before he too gave into a smile.

He remembered tears streaming down her face, at Bad Wolf Bay.

He remembered approaching Jessica's desk, optimistic about the the development of their reluctant conversation, and seeing her flinch back from him. Remembered the fury and terror on her face whenever he looked at her wrong.

He'd been trying to help. He was still trying to help. But things just kept getting worse. And somehow, it was entirely out of his control.

A blackness sucked at him, a tide pulling him under. His only defense against it was anger - at what, exactly, he wasn't sure. Maybe it was just restlessness-turned-aggressive, maybe frustration at his situation, maybe it was borne out of fear. It rose up out of the dark, choking in his throat like a suppressed scream, grabbing at his chest with an unrelenting fist. He fought against it for a dizzy, hearts-pounding moment, but it was simply one unbearable emotion against another, and anger won out easily. His body seemed to move of its own accord; his hand reached out and took one of the thin, empty glasses on the counter, reeking of old alcohol, and threw it against the far wall, which wasn't really all that far at all.

It shattered into a thousand tiny pieces. The shards of glass made little _tinkling_ sounds, deceptively gentle, as they ricocheted off the counter, and the walls, and the floor. The pieces were rogue and wild, but that had been his intent. Something he had done, himself, of his own accord, entirely on purpose. Something he'd controlled, as much as he could control anything.

He heard the footsteps rushing in, but they didn't register until he had thrown one of the mugs, too. The ceramic sounded different than the glass, and didn't produce as many pieces. His vision spotted again. His entire front stung in a thousand tiny places. He'd been too close to the flying glass. He entertained the idea of fighting back as Jessica wrestled the second mug out of his hand, sloshing hot water over the both of them, but instead his muscles locked up. She took the mug away, cursing nonstop. Grabbed him by the shoulders and practically shoved him into the nearest wall, where she pinned him.

He pushed back, just for a second, before his mind suddenly wrenched back full control of his body and he stopped cold. The anger retreated to a quiet boil in his stomach, the black stealing over him almost completely once the intruder was gone, a smothering, silencing thing. It was a different kind of choking.

"What the hell is wrong with you?" Jessica snarled. She hid her fear well, but it lurked under the surface.

He was being unfair. Brutally so. And not all of it was on accident, which was...not what he wanted to think about. This - Kilgrave, the frustration, the being-trapped-in-the-apartment, the glass - wasn't Jessica's fault. Or Malcolm's, or Trish's. Or anybody's but his, really. He was scrabbling at something, anything, to control his downward descent, or whatever this was. Trying to wrench back the control he knew he'd had, at some point, a long time ago. Throwing glass, manipulating timelines, warping the universe as he saw fit. He tried to explain some of this, any of it, but his mouth would only say, "Sorry, sorry-"

Jessica interrupted him with nothing more than an enraged growling noise that escalated to something of a muffled scream as she pushed away from him and paced to the other side of the room. The second she was gone, the Doctor slumped against the wall, slipping down to the floor.

He thought of Mars, and the Time Lord Victorious, and Kilgrave, and Jessica's fear, and shuddered. He wondered if Kilgrave had felt out of control, and that's why he'd fought for it so badly. And then he thought he might retch.

"I keep trying and it keeps getting worse," he choked out, so quietly he didn't think anyone heard him. Certainly not Jessica, who was busy pulling frantically at her hair and clearly trying to figure out what to do.

"Call Trish," she ordered to Malcolm, who had frozen in the doorway. "Go, now, just-God." She ran her hands down her face. Then whirled on the Doctor with mad fury in her eyes. "You're going to explain yourself right this goddamn second, or I'm going to fucking kill you."

She seemed pretty certain about it.

The Doctor gathered himself with a rattling breath. Telling her the truth would be a bad idea. "I don't know," he said weakly. "I just. Had some interesting thoughts. Bad thoughts, I mean. Interesting isn't the right word."

Jessica paled, visibly. She leaned closer to him, squinted. "Bad like what."

His hearts pounded, and they wouldn't stop. He had to watch his words, or he might find himself in an even more uncomfortable position. "I'm afraid that I'm hurting you," he said, carefully, so slowly his voice threatened a tremor. "I really, really don't want to, but I feel that it doesn't matter how hard I try. It still happens."

"Yeah, when you throw fucking glass against the wall!" Jessica snapped. "Jesus."

"You know that isn't what I meant," the Doctor said. The second he met her eyes, he saw them fill with the memory of terror, and she spun away again to resume pacing.

The black transformed into a swallowing blank complacency, and he let himself fall limp against the wall, completely, and closed his eyes. There was nothing to do, not now. If he moved, or said the wrong thing, or did the wrong thing, he would scare Jessica. He didn't need to do any more of that.

(He'd just wanted to help. And then he'd ruined it.)

He heard drawers opening and closing, and Jessica's footsteps. He still stung on almost his entire front side - his palms and arms and legs, and on the soles of his bare feet - from where the glass had struck him and he'd stepped in it. He could feel the pain with every breath, but he didn't do anything about it. He couldn't.

He startled when hands grabbed at his arms again, but not enough to encourage them to let go. The hands pulled him up, up, up, to a standing position. Standing on the glass forced it further into his skin, but he couldn't manage more than a weak hiss in response. He opened his eyes to Jessica glaring at him, before she turned him around and pushed him out of the kitchen, down the hall, into the bathroom.

"Trish is coming," she said emotionlessly, sitting him down on the toilet. The second pressure was off his feet, the Doctor realized he hadn't been breathing, and forced in a shaky breath. "I'm going to take this glass out," Jessica continued in that same tone, "and then you're going to fucking explain yourself better."

The Doctor almost pressed his palms into his eyes, then thought better of it. Didn't want to make an already bad situation worse. "Misplaced anger," he said. Jessica took out tweezers, and pulled a bucket from under the sink.

"I'm cleaning up," Malcolm announced from the hall. Jessica didn't acknowledge him, simply adjusted her grip on the tweezers.

"I don't-" the Doctor began, a little uncertain, but she was already taking one of his feet and starting. _I can do this, I've been through worse_ , he told himself. And he believed it, too.

Jessica pulled the first shard free, and any ideas of 'easiness' immediately fled his mind as he fought not to flinch at the grind of pain. She dropped the shard into the bucket and continued her administrations. She had to dig into his foot to drag out the next piece; he screwed his eyes shut and tilted his head back until it pressed against the wall. Everything was sharp and jagged - the contact with the wall, the pressure of his back against the toilet's tank, his weight on the seat, the terrible fire in his foot. Every sensation and sound and smell pushed violently against him, too much, too quickly.

Most of the pieces were incredibly small, and although the wounds they had created weren't very big, they were deep. The Doctor could feel that much from just a few removals. Jessica took a short break to take a gulp of whiskey, and the Doctor let himself relax, just for a moment.

She moved on, continuing on with the rest of his foot. It became slightly more bearable as he got used to the pain, but it would have been a lie to say it was anything close to easy. At last, however, at last, she announced, "One down," on a long breath. "I don't think anything needs stitches so far, thank fuck. Malcolm, can you hand me-" A pause, and then his foot was pushed into a pool of liquid fire. It _burned_ , more than anything he'd felt in a while. His eyes popped open, but he clenched his jaw and maintained silence. He stared up at her grimy ceiling (how did a ceiling get grimy?) and tried to think of anything else. A rough hand briskly wet the foot in something clean and cold, then briskly dried it. He recognized the soft bind of bandages rolling over the injuries, and relaxed.

"You're gonna push that glass deeper into your hands that way," Jessica remarked. With effort, he looked down at her. She didn't meet his eyes, busy with finishing her bandaging. Then her comment registered, and he released the grip he didn't know he'd been holding on the toilet beneath him. Now his hands screamed, too, and he couldn't stop them from shaking this time. "Other foot," she then warned, setting his foot to the floor and picking up the other.

A lifetime later, the newly treated foot was shoved into the fire again - what he'd gathered was whiskey in a tupperware container. It was both easier and more difficult the second time around. He was prepared, but someone - Malcolm, he assumed - snatched up his wrists at the last minute at Jessica's orders to stop him from grabbing at anything again. He shoved back the instinct to shake Malcolm off and let the man pin his wrists to the wall. As the flare of agony faded to a dull ache he could feel Malcolm trembling minutely where he had braced himself beside the Doctor.

The bandages returned, and his arms were released. The Doctor barely managed to keep them from banging against the sides of the toilet as he relaxed. His foot was set down with the other, and he could breathe again.

"Pants off," Jessica gruffly ordered.

Bewildered, he forced his head up to stare at her. Malcolm lingered nearby, radiating anxiety.

"You've got glass in your legs," Jessica explained dryly. "Don't know if you noticed." The Doctor decided to ignore her. He fumbled at his hips, hardly feeling the shift of the glass in his skin as he loosened his trousers and awkwardly forced them down his legs. He felt exposed and chilled in nothing but boxers, but, well. It wasn't like he had much of a choice in the matter.

The legs were easier. There weren't as many little shards. Jessica bathed each of the deep little cuts in her whiskey, and bandaged the worse-off ones. And moved on.

The slippery concept of time he had stubbornly held while his feet had been treated was washed away entirely as she started on his hands. It should have made things easier - would have, if he were human. But as a Time Lord, it only made the process all the more agonizing. He was aware, but he might as well have been unconscious after all, for all that he was actually absorbing of the situation. He was so tired.

He was wrapped all in cotton, it felt. A mummified Time Lord, an angry human woman digging bloodied glass out of his palms. He thought of the Master as Jessica washed one hand in fire, and couldn't stop thinking about him afterwards. He had been through worse than this on the Valiant - there was something about your time sense being purposefully violated that struck something deeper in you than mere physical pain. But Malcolm, at one point, had to slap a hand over the Doctor's mouth to stop him from making noise, and the Doctor couldn't help but think back to another torture, another timeless time.

"Don't scream, Doctor," Jack had said, bloody-faced and sweat-streaked. His nails bit into the Doctor's cheeks, his presence scraped at his brain. "You know that's what he wants. Please, Doc." He was always so terrified, Jack was. "I know it hurts, but I'm here."

That's what he needed now, in all this slush. Jack the Fact. An anchor in the storm; one that pinched at all his nerves, but an anchor nonetheless.

Jessica had his right hand now - but she was wrapping it. He blinked his eyes open. No Jack, no Valiant, no Master. Jessica binding his injuries, her face darkened and downcast. His body singed and humming with a constant sting. A now-warm toilet seat underneath him instead of the Valiant's icy metal floor.

Jessica released his hand. He thought about bringing it up to his face to examine, but it instead flopped uselessly down. He realized he was hunched up against the side of the sink. The rim of it dug slightly into his temple.

"You're such an asshole," Jessica breathed. Her near-emotionless mask finally broke, and she rubbed exhaustedly at her face. "God." He owed her an apology. Another one, anyway. But his mouth refused to work, and his brain wouldn't communicate any real words to it anyway. "Don't fucking apologize," she said almost as soon as the watery thought entered his mind. She sighed. "I'll be back."

His stomach growled the second she was gone, as if it had been waiting for her to leave, but there was nothing he could do about that now. Even if he could have eaten, though, he wasn't sure that it would be a good idea. It was the kind of hunger that felt like he might throw up if he did eat.

He startled as new hands, softer than Jessica's, rested on his arms. He opened his eyes to find Trish, pale and angry, staring at him.

"When did you get here?" he managed after a moment, attempting casual. But his voice came out too weak, and he wasn't sure that he could sit up, so it didn't work as well as he'd hoped.

She scanned his face, hers almost expressionless but for the tinge of fear and rage in her eyes. "Not long ago," she replied, quietly. Somehow even more softly, she demanded, "You weren't trying to hurt Jessica, were you?"

The Doctor's throat clenched up, without his permission. The blankness of earlier still reigned, but the barest hint of dread snuck up on him. "Not trying to, no," he rasped. "I don't know if that's worse. I was just. Angry, I suppose. Not with her. No reason." He did want to explain, really, as much as he could, but he didn't think he should.

Trish swallowed. Nodded, once, before handing him a shirt and pants and drawing away. Jessica came in not a second later with an armful of blankets. She dumped them on the floor, without a hint of organization. "I'm not moving you to the couch," she informed the Doctor. "Not unless you want to move yourself."

He considered it, but knew the second he tried to stand under his own power that he wouldn't make it. He somewhat gracefully lowered himself to the bathroom floor, tangling himself up in the blankets in the process, and made himself as comfortable as possible. Trish gave him a pillow, and although that helped, it couldn't wash away the burning feeling that refused to leave him.

He heard whispers outside, as maddening as before, but he couldn't do anything about it now. Anger, again, deep and dark, poked at him.

 _You're grouchy today,_ Donna's voice said, a ghost of a memory. _Getting enough sleep, spaceman?_

That all was probably something to do with it, he supposed. He forced a deep breath. He wasn't thinking clearly. He'd let it all go too far, to the point where other people were getting hurt now. But even the idea of sleep seemed preposterous - and more than that, the thought of it had a familiar nervous fluttering bursting in his stomach. And his stomach turned when he tried to turn his thoughts to food instead.

Moreover, he was starting to feel like he didn't much deserve them. Not with the way he was acting, not with everything he'd done to Jessica. What he could do to her in the future, and all the rest of them.

His hand burned in protest as he clenched it into a fist, but as the alternative was to start looking for things to throw again, he figured that was the better decision, in the end.

He was just tired. Exhausted to the core. Angry. At himself for being ridiculous and cruel, and Jessica for refusing his help, and then himself again for being angry at her for refusing his help, since she had plenty of reason to. Helpless, because he was lying on Jessica's bathroom floor with a sensor clasped around his ankle and he couldn't be trusted to help with the case, or to leave the apartment. And then angry again because it was unfair of him to blame Jessica for that. And then furious because he could have left by now, and avoided all of this, and told the truth straight off. And then frustrated because he knew that wouldn't have helped. And angry again because it was too late now anyway. He couldn't turn back, or undo. He had to wait for the right time.

But it was starting to seem like it would never come.

* * *

 **Poor Doctor :(**

 **Well, I hope you guys enjoyed. We're almost halfway through now! I appreciate all of you who are following, favoriting, and most of all REVIEWING! Please leave me your comments! I love to hear from you. Tell me what you thought of this chapter, what you want to happen/think will happen, ranting about whatever...whatever you like! :)**


	11. Chapter 11

**Chapter 11**

Trish left Kilgrave where he lay on the floor, and strode purposefully into the living room. Jessica paced, arms held close to her like she might shatter herself if she didn't hold on. Malcolm sat on the couch, chin in his hands. His gaze flickered up to Trish as she entered. It was pleading, uncertain.

"Jessica," Trish said. She made herself be firm instead of gentle, knowing that Jessica was at the point where she wouldn't respond to niceness. "Jessica, stop for a second."

Jessica waved her off. It was a sharp, cutting motion. Trish's heart sank.

"What happened?" she tried again. "I need the details."

Malcolm spoke up in Jessica's stead. "We were trying to work on the case," he explained. "I told him to go make tea to get him out of the room so me and Jessica could talk. We were trying to discuss the drug. You know about it, right?"

Jessica had mentioned it, yes. "The memory loss one," Trish acknowledged. Malcolm nodded.

"I had a bit of a theory," he said. "He, uh. He doesn't remember anything about being Kilgrave, right? Could it be possible that that's a result of a different strain of the drug, or an earlier version of it?"

Icy terror rushed its way through Trish's veins. Jess seemed to pace just a little bit faster. "Oh."

Malcolm nodded again, more gravely. "Yeah. Exactly. And didn't some of Jessica's clients mention having entirely different, conflicting stories about the same victim, the same situation? Even his whole backstory could just be…" Malcolm trailed off, glancing to Jessica, and cleared his throat. "So I wanted to talk about that, with Jessica. Alone, for obvious reasons. Um. So we sent him out. And everything was fine, completely, for a while. And then we heard a glass break. We went to go look, and we saw him throw one of the mugs, and, uh, Jessica stopped him."

"He would have kept going," Jessica muttered, almost inaudible over the sound of her boots on the floor. "I had to practically rip one of the mugs out of his hand, and I had to push him." Without warning, she stopped cold, doing an odd swaying that had Trish's chest twinging with worry. "He pushed back, Trish," Jessica continued, very quietly. "He's never done that before."

"Or even been violent at all," Malcolm added. "It's...it lends itself a little more to my theory."

Trish stared at him. "What do you mean?"

Malcolm took a breath. "The drug wears off eventually, doesn't it?" he ventured at last.

Trish found that her hands were shaking a little, and her muscles had locked. She didn't even truly start to process the horror that Malcolm's implication had ignited in her for several long moments. "You aren't saying what I think you're saying," she tried.

Malcolm nodded, slowly, just once.

The breath escaped her, all at once. She had to fight to regain her composure. "We have to ask him," she said. "If he's remembering, we have to know. Now."

"What makes you think he'll tell the truth?" Jessica asked. Bitterness soured her voice.

Trish shook her head, for a lack of anything else.

"What did he say happened?" she said. "All he would tell me was that he got upset."

Jessica closed her eyes, bit her lip hard enough to whiten it. "One of the first things he said to me was that he'd had a 'bad thought,'" she revealed.

Trish swallowed, fear spiking through her anew. "Oh."

"That sounds like remembering," Malcolm pointed out.

"He was angry or freaked out about that, then, probably," Trish deduced. "Whatever thought or memory he had. And he reacted."

"Fine, okay," Jessica said, throwing her hands up, "so he's not a raging psychopath yet. Good for him. I still don't trust him."

"I didn't say we should," Trish defended. "I don't intend to."

"Breaking glass and hurting yourself in the process is still an extreme reaction," Malcolm said. "That kind of suggests some major anger issues, if nothing else. From what I've seen, that's sort of new, for the most part. He's been visibly angry in the past, but not to the point where I would have expected him to start breaking things."

Trish nodded. She took a deep breath, tried to maintain her calm. "So we're seeing a few signs that Malcolm's theory could be right. Or at the very least, that something is going on."

"So, what, we ask him and hope he doesn't lie?" Jessica snarked. "Sounds fucking fantastic."

Trish sighed. "I don't know what we do."

* * *

The Doctor realized he'd fallen asleep, and immediately sat up, opening his eyes to the light of late morning. It took a long moment to orient himself, and remember why exactly he was sitting on the bathroom floor. The second the memories reordered themselves, he sighed and slumped against the wall.

Right. The glass.

Besides his own harsh breathing, leftover from his already-forgotten blur of a dream and his sudden awakening, the apartment was quiet. He strained to listen for some kind of life, but heard nothing but the sounds of the city outside. No footsteps, no conversation. They'd left him, and gone...somewhere. The apartment rang with the silence, a constant painful tinnitus that shook through the Doctor's bones in the most unpleasant way.

 _Probably to talk again_ , he thought, bitterly. _There's something they don't want me to know._

The silence, however, was far worse than the whispering had been.

The thoughts itched at him, but he was forced to push it aside and move on. There was nothing to do about it at the moment. He could have a look around the apartment later, see if he could turn anything up. For the moment, however, he couldn't do much more than sit. Despite the rest his body had forced on him, he didn't feel all that much better. A little less hollow, but still hungry. Still woozy and foggy and irritable.

He calculated that he'd gotten a few solid hours in, but not a full night's rest. Not what he really needed. Well, maybe that was fine. He just needed enough to keep going. He could collapse for a full day, if he wanted to, once this was all done. His own bed in the TARDIS, a nice healing coma...but not now. Later. Soon.

He took stock of the rest of his body - his stomach still growled, and his head still hurt, and he was still dizzy. He ached all over from his night spent on the floor. More than just that, though, all of his tiny little cuts stung mightily, insistently. His once-white bandages were turning gray and brown from their time on Jessica's dirty floor. His hair hung limp in his face. He noticed a smell - not just the leftover tang of Time Lord blood from the night before, but dried sweat. His own.

 _I need a shower_.

That would make things much better. He very nearly perked up at the thought, sat up just the tiniest bit straighter. However, when he looked to the shower, it seemed...very far away. And tall. He'd have to stand, and move. He could sit in the shower, but he'd have to get up again.

He drooped again as reality sunk in. But it would get him going, wouldn't it? Once he was up and moving, maybe he'd feel a little better. Maybe once he was clean he'd feel more like himself.

Before he even properly stood, his feet were screaming. But he made it upright somehow, through whatever adrenaline remained from earlier. Made it to the sink, somehow, leaned on it, stared at himself in the mirror. His hair was dampened with a grotesque amount of grease. His own eyes stared back at him, dull, bagged despite his rest. He looked pale, paler than he'd thought. Thin, and tired, and miserable. He passed a shaky hand over his face and noticed the scruff that he had at last become too weak to prevent from growing.

He forced away the dark thoughts he didn't want to deal with, and moved on.

It felt like fire on his feet again as he shuffled to the shower. Dizziness overwhelmed him and the room tilted sideways; he leaned heavily against the wall and tried to see straight. Oh, that wasn't good. He'd thought that he maybe was a little less...but that didn't bear thinking about, not now.

He fumbled for the shower knob, blindly turned it until the water was less frigid, and took at least ten terrible minutes to undress himself before stepping in.

He ended up sat down on the floor, letting the water stream over him and soak his bandages. He didn't shampoo, relying only on the thin bar of Jessica's soap to clean himself. He burned, sharp and horrible, and it only got worse when he finally shed the soggy bandages and bared his injuries. But the shower filled the silence, and he let it, for a good thirty minutes until the water went cold, and to avoid hypothermia he had to shut it off.

He sat and shivered for an unspeakable amount of time. It took another thirty minutes for him to gather enough strength to stand again and clamber into the clothes he'd been given. He didn't even bother drying off; the clothing soaked up most of the water. He was left damp and cold, but he hardly noticed. He sat again in his ruined, painful nest in the corner and mindlessly smeared the very last of the antibacterial gel over his feet and hands. Then he bandaged himself up again and sat there, shuddering, entirely too aware of the renewed quiet.

 _Pull yourself together_ , he ordered himself. _This is your own fault. You have to deal with it. There is not another option._ He had terrified Jessica, after swearing to help her. Feeling that he would fall asleep again if he laid down, the Doctor remained as upright as possible. He laid his head instead against the freezing wall and grit his teeth. _You've gone through worse, anyhow_ , he thought. _This is nothing. You have taken care of yourself so far, and you will continue to do so. There is not another option_.

The apartment was so very quiet. And he didn't know what to do. If he only hurt her more when he tried to help, what was he supposed to do? He couldn't _not_ help her, he couldn't...but he apparently couldn't do any good trying to help her, either. Restlessness poked at him, but there was nothing to be done. He couldn't leave, not if he was trying to help Jessica, not unless he was prepared to deal with the guilt that would come with his departure. He couldn't do anything.

 _You will not run from this. You've run enough. You have to fix this. There is not another option_.

But how could he fix it, or anything, when he kept shattering everything he touched? Whether it was by accident or on purpose.

He wanted tea. He wanted a warmer blanket and a more comfortable bed and someone to card their hand through his hair and say nice things to him. He wanted red hair and a sharp mouth, "oi"s and "spaceman"s every other minute. He wanted nagging and ranting and demands and laughter and amazement and kindness.

He hardly had enough energy left to keep his eyes open, but he somehow had enough to feel a pang of grief, powerful enough to make him fight for air.

 _There is not another option_ , he reminded himself. _You don't have anything but this right now_.

The Doctor made himself forget Donna's hands closing reassuringly over his, and turned his attention instead to the unlocking of the front door.

He hoped it wasn't Jessica. It was her apartment, so maybe this was a bad thought, but he desperately hoped that it was anyone, anyone other than her. If it was Jessica, what would he say? What was he _supposed_ to say?

Heels clicked into the living room; Trish, then. He relaxed, let his eyelids drift shut for the barest of seconds. He listened to her enter the kitchen, rattle something, clang something metal, pour water...tea? The kettle whistled not ten minutes later, and his mouth twitched in a parody of happiness. Someone had heard his wishes, somewhere.

His eyes had closed again, he realized, almost lulling him back to sleep, as Trish harshly whispered, "Hey," and they flew open. They didn't focus for a long minute, but when they did they found her standing hesitantly in the doorway, clutching a chipped mug of tea like a lifeline, apprehension apparent on her face.

"Let's talk," Trish said. She nervously licked her lips, took a breath, adjusted her grip on the mug, and awkwardly sat herself down on the floor across from him. It was probably wet, but she hardly seemed to notice, the only acknowledgement being the slight wrinkling of her nose. The Doctor accepted the mug as she offered it to him, only to bring it close and clutch it to his chest. Its heat cut through the damp of the shirt, and the scent wafting up to him cleared his head just slightly.

He couldn't help but feel sort of touched by the gesture. He meant to thank her, but what came out instead was "where's Jessica?"

Trish bit her lip again. "She left," she sighed, "early this morning. I think she needed some space, some room to think." She began picking at the fabric of her pants, as intently as if there was nothing else in the world.

The Doctor swallowed. "Right."

Trish sighed again. "I need you to be honest with me," she said. "Completely."

Well. That wasn't something he could probably do. The Doctor took a sip of the tea, feeling the burn on his tongue. "Okay," he said.

Trish nodded once, seeming to gather herself, then stared him directly in the eye. "Jessica told me that when she asked you about the glass, you told her you'd had a 'bad thought.'" She paused. The Doctor got the impression she was wondering if she'd regret what she was about to say. "Was that thought a memory?" she finished, much more quietly.

At first, yes. Where was she going with this? Hesitantly, the Doctor nodded. He very nearly startled in surprise as she suddenly paled, her eyes fluttering closed.

She took a shuddering breath, as if rousing herself, and opened them again. "Okay," she said. "Okay."

The Doctor searched for words, and for some kind of meaning in hers. The fogginess of earlier had begun its return not along ago, slow and heavy, and he struggled to keep focused. He tightened his grip on the mug. It threatened to burn his skin, even through the new bandages. It felt terribly like he'd just made a horrible mistake. "I just," he tried to explain. "I lost all my control, here. I needed some back."

Trish nodded, the muscles in her jaw working. Her eyes locked on the mug in his hands, and the way he was holding it, and they widened marginally. Without a work, she pulled it away from him, and he let her. His hands were left to clench in his lap. Although they protested the motion, he couldn't stop them. They needed something to do.

"I don't know where Jessica went," Trish revealed, quietly. "She didn't tell me. I wanted to give her space. I'm going to call her, try to get her to come back, okay? We need to talk. About the drug, and...and you."

He felt as if he was on the brink of understanding, but the epiphany wouldn't come to him. He pressed his palms together, trying to think clearly. He felt himself shaking, too much to hide.

It was time to go. It was long since time to go.

But he couldn't. Not without leaving broken, terrified humans in his wake.

He didn't want to do that anymore.

* * *

Trish forced Kilgrave out to the couch, telling him that if he wanted to help he should start by getting out of the way, and handing him a towel to dry himself off from his attempt at a shower. She threw a couple of others on the floor to dry it, and did her best to make things more presentable.

She tidied up the apartment as much as she could without digging into any of Jess' personal things. She did all the dishes and, feeling productive and restless, scrubbed the counters and put all the stray items on them away. She dug Jessica's dusty, shitty vacuum out of the closet and vacuumed every bit of carpet in the house. It rattled and threatened to break down several times, but it never stopped her from working. Kilgrave, curled up on the couch, looked like he might speak up and offer to help at any minute, but he didn't.

She took a couple of calls on what had once been Kilgrave's phone, but neither were new cases; simply already-taken clients who had called after finding themselves unable to get in touch with Jessica. Trish ached with worry at this revelation. She had a few ideas of where Jess could be, but she couldn't know anything for sure, and she wasn't about to go on a manhunt. She understood that Jessica needed space, right now. That didn't mean she wasn't still wildly concerned, but she could restrain herself for a little while, at least.

Trish sat at Jessica's desk, hands folded in her lap, white-knuckled, trying to tame her breathing into something calmer. Kilgrave was awake, still, somehow, sitting utterly still and staring at the wall. The apartment was silent but for her harsh breathing. She eventually propped her head up on the desk with one hand, feeling drained and drawn tight with anxiety. She couldn't stop thinking, she couldn't shut her brain off or turn it away from the thoughts it so eagerly returned to. She closed her eyes, attempted one of the meditations a counselor had once taught her. She felt ridiculous, but after a while she managed to calm herself enough to dip into the lightest sleep, a restless, fitful nap, half lying on Jessica's desk. She hadn't even realized she'd fallen into a doze until the desk vibrated underneath her head, and she jerked confusedly upright.

Her phone. Not Kilgrave's phone, but hers. She snatched at it, with hands that definitely were not shaking, and almost fell out of her chair upon seeing the caller ID. _Jessica_. Finally. She could feel Kilgrave's eyes on her.

"Is everything okay?" she blurted as soon as she'd picked up.

A sigh. _"I'm fine_ ," Jessica grouched. She sounded only slightly better than she had when she'd left, but the small difference gave Trish a world of relief. _"Where are you?"_

"Your place." Trish paused, chewed on her lip as Jessica went quiet. "I cleaned things up a little bit for you."

On the other end, Trish could hear Jessica breathing, slightly too hard, and the sound of traffic and horns and people. " _What about Kilgrave?"_

Trish glanced at him. He looked back at her, his face reading 'concerned,' but his eyes dull.

"He's fine. We had a talk earlier." She checked the time. It was nearing eight o'clock. How had it gotten so late? The apartment was slowly getting dark. "He, uh. He said yes."

Jessica didn't say a word. Trish would have wondered if the call had been dropped, if she hadn't been able to hear the city humming in the background.

"Meaning he remembered something," Jessica deduced, with a voice like gravel.

"Yeah," Trish breathed. "I'm...we didn't talk about it a whole lot, but yeah. That's what he said. That's what it's...sounding like."

More silence. Then Jessica said, "Let's just...he still doesn't have his powers, those shouldn't miraculously return even if he does go back to being himself. We have bigger problems. Or almost bigger."

Trish's heart about stopped. She straightened up, blinked, pressed a hand onto the desk. "What do you mean?"

"I'm on my way over." The line clicked dead, and Trish was left to clutch her phone in the silence of the apartment once more.

* * *

The world returned slowly, like the uncertain adjustment of television antennas to retrieve a picture from static and darkness. The chill of the bathroom, leftover on his skin despite his best efforts, had been replaced with a fuzzy, sleepy warmth that reminded him of late, fire-lit nights in the library, and piles of blankets over cozy, cheerful figures in the console room.

He'd fallen asleep. At some point after Jessica had called, he'd lost focus and drifted off.

He wanted to feel relief, or anger, or frustration, or disappointment, or anything at all, but he didn't. Maybe that was a good thing.

Words floated into focus. "Still no leads. It's all the same thing, except now we can see it happening. Nobody even cares."

"I'm surprised they didn't come after you."

"Too risky." Jessica's voice. "There's not just me involved, they must know that. If they were going to drug me with whatever it is, they'd have to get you, Malcolm, all the clients...Luke, too. It's easier just to make one man disappear and leave us scrambling than try to wipe several people's minds of the whole ordeal."

That sounded important.

"But surely that only helps us?" That was Trish. "Now we can keep an eye on the situation, figure out how this drug works. Maybe we can reel the people affected in, do some tests, make some kind of cure or something. We can at least speed up the process, before it's too late."

"Where are we going to find a lab to do that?"

He tried to open his eyes, found them heavy and noncompliant at first. With a brief struggle, though, he began to twitch, become minutely more aware, and forced them open. Even just the slightest extra bit of sleep had dragged him down.

The conversation halted abruptly. He looked over to find both Jessica and Trish eyeing him warily, as if expecting him to explode on them. He felt that maybe that was a little unwarranted, but, well...he wasn't exactly sure of what to make of himself at the moment. And he'd said something at some point that had rattled the two of them - that was clear, even if he couldn't quite pinpoint what exactly was going on.

He propped himself up and rubbed at his eyes. "What's happening?"

The women exchanged a look, before Jessica, with gritted teeth and a resolve to push past whatever it was that was troubling her, gave in. "One of my kidnapping clients was taken. He only talked to one other person about taking the case to us, and that person has evidently been drugged and doesn't seem to give a shit about his friend's disappearance."

The Doctor pushed away any of his feelings about his own situation, and considered the new development. "Well," he said again. "That's rather concerning. I assume you've already tried to talk to this man, with less than ideal results."

"He didn't see what the big deal was," Jessica flatly replied. "Of fucking course he didn't."

"I heard something about analyzing the drug? A lab?" There was the TARDIS, of course, which could churn out an answer about the substance in a matter of minutes, but obviously that wasn't a route that he could take at the present moment. The Doctor unhappily eyed the sensor around his ankle, but tried to do so in a way that didn't look like he was unhappily eyeing it. And he remembered, in a sudden burst of inspiration, slender brown hands winding bandages around his wrists after she removed the ropes. "What about that nurse friend of yours? She works at a hospital, yeah? She'd have access to some kind of lab, wouldn't she?"

Jessica was already taking out her phone, her face settling into nothing but focus as she stepped into the hallway. The Doctor quickly discovered, even as she left, that the initial energy that had flooded him upon his waking was quickly draining away. Although he was feeling a bit better for the nap (and beginning to feel a bit guiltily relieved that Trish hadn't woken him earlier), it couldn't make up for ages of deprivation.

Trish leaned against the desk, watching him guardedly. "Are you feeling any better?"

"I wasn't feeling bad," he countered. It didn't sound as strong aloud as it had in his head.

Her lips twisted. "I'll take that as a no, then."

He thought about firing back, but, remembering Trish's fear, still sensing it lingering around her, held his tongue. Instead, he shrugged off the thin, slowly-drying towel from his shoulders, and offered Trish what felt like a very tremulous smile.

"I understand it's hard to be nice to me," he said. He could see Trish's throat work as he paused. "Maybe you shouldn't be. But thank you for trying."

She nodded once, stiffly, hardly noticeable, before fleeing the room and leaving the Doctor alone once more.

* * *

 **Thank you all for reading! Please continue to send me your thoughts, I look forward to hearing from you all! :)**


	12. Chapter 12

**Chapter 12**

Jessica stayed on the line with Claire, knowing that the other woman would agree before the words had even been said.

"You understand that I could be risking my job here? I'm not a doctor, I can't just do blood tests for no reason."

Jessica held her phone in place between her ear and shoulder while she shrugged on her jacket and quickly twined her scarf around her neck. "Whatever we can do is fine," she insisted. "This is urgent. I wouldn't call you if it wasn't. I'm not trying to get you in trouble for no reason, alright? I'm not that much of an asshole." Jessica nodded at Trish as she left the apartment, pointedly ignoring Kilgrave on the couch. The remembering thing wasn't something she wanted to think about at all, if she could help it. She could afford to deal with that later. She had to deal with it later.

Claire was silent for a long time, but Jessica didn't prompt her, even after it had been nearly a minute. Finally, the nurse made a frustrated noise in the back of her throat. "Fine," she snapped. "You have to hurry, though, I've got an hour and a half left of my shift. I won't be able to stick around after."

"I can work with that," Jessica grit out. "I'll try to be there in twenty." Without a goodbye, she hung up, and set off in the direction of her target's office building. She had pegged him, upon meeting him, as a kind of workaholic, the type to spend extra time in the office after regular work hours. She could only hope that she would find him there this late, almost 8:30. God, what a fucking joke her life was.

It wasn't a long walk, only a few blocks, but it somehow felt like an eternity. Jessica couldn't help her mind from racing, counting the seconds, anxiously trying to work through the problem mentally, trying to figure out what her next steps would be after she hauled George Baker from his job for a quick "checkup" at the hospital. She would probably have to wait a day or two or three for any real results, and then they would have to do some serious experimentation to figure out what to do with their new information. That is, if they got it in the first place. God, there were so many ways this could go wrong. And what if he had already gone home? She didn't know his home address, and tracking him down could take a couple of hours, hours she didn't have.

Before she was ready, she was standing in front of the building, and was forced to put her hastily-assembled plan into action. She put on her best friendly smile, tried to loosen her posture into something welcoming instead of tense and frustrated, and started into the building. The receptionist looked up from her computer with a graceful, if confused, smile, and Jessica returned it to her with as much cheer as she could manage. "Hi," she said, forcing a degree of warmth into her voice, "I'm here to see George Baker? Is he still in? I know it's late, but I know he likes to stay after hours sometimes."

"Is he expecting you?" the woman prompted, not unkindly.

"Not exactly," Jessica said with something resembling an embarrassed laugh. "I'm a cousin, in town to visit." She put a finger to her lips. "It's a surprise."

"Oh!" the woman said. "Well, that's sweet." She looked slightly uncertain, but Jessica beamed at her, and she softened a little. "His office is on the third floor. I won't tell him you're coming." She winked conspiratorially, and Jessica forced another smile.

"Thanks." She approached the elevator as if she had all the time in the world, and hit the button with a tinge of relief. Nearly in the clear. Once it arrived, she stepped inside, thankful for its emptiness, and flashed one more smile at the receptionist, who smiled obliviously back. Jessica hated people, but she occasionally felt sort of bad for manipulating them when they meant well. But she meant well, too. Maybe the receptionist would have been the next one taken, and by doing this Jessica was saving her. Unlikely, but possible enough to ease her angry conscience. Just in time, the doors dinged open, and Jessica had to paste a harmless look on her face as she exited and glanced around the floor.

It was quiet; mostly small offices, with a small waiting area outfitted with magazine-decorated tables and straight-backed waiting chairs, and more chairs set up outside each of the offices. Quiet, and dark, as the end of the work day had long since come. Each of the offices was labelled, but even if they hadn't been it would have been easy to find George Baker's - it was the only one with light seeping out of it. She peered into the small window in the door, and, seeing that he was alone, slipped inside.

"Hey!" he said, straightening up and squinting at her. "What the hell are you doing here?"

She closed the door behind her, and turned to him with a scowl. "Listen, George, this is serious. I wouldn't bother you at this time of day if it wasn't."

"If you don't leave immediately, I can have you escorted out," he warned. His hand crept towards his phone.

"Don't," Jessica ordered. She wanted nothing more than to stalk forward and snatch his hand away, but she knew that would do more harm than good. "Look, I'm not going to hurt you. But your friend owes me money, okay?"

George rolled his eyes, and, thankfully, slouched back into his chair. Irritated, but apparently deciding that she didn't present an immediate danger. "I'm sure Tom will pay you when he gets back."

Jessica sighed. "George-"

"Mr. Baker," he corrected.

"Mr. Baker," she repeated through clenched teeth. "I know you aren't worried about your friend, but I am. Maybe he's fine, but I'm inclined to believe that he isn't. At all. And I'm pretty sure he's not going to come back, not unless we do something. And by the time you realize that, it's going to be too late."

He cocked an eyebrow at her, frowning. "Not this again. Ms. Jones, I keep telling you that Tom's fine. He can take care of himself. I've been his friend for years, I know that better than anyone. He's fine, you'll see."

She fought back a growl, and sighed again. "The point is, I need some form of payment, or I'll have to bring lawyers into this. And since you're Tom's emergency contact, I think that you'll be the first one that my people contact for information, and for money. And I know you don't want that anymore than I do. I'd rather get this done without any trouble."

His hand inched towards the phone again as he slowly sat up. "Are you threatening me?"

"No," she grit out. "I'm not. I'm just telling you that something needs to be done, and soon, or things will get messy. Legally," she added pointedly. "This is a business, Mr. Baker, and I have to take care of myself. Does that make sense to you?"

His hand fell, and Jessica silently thanked _someone_. "Fine," he grumbled. He eased back in his seat again, and though he tried to look nonchalant, Jessica could easily read his worry. "What does he owe you?"

"Forget about the money," she said. His eyebrows rose, but she plowed on, ignoring his skepticism. "All I need is a blood sample from you, and I'll let you off the hook."

"A blood sample," he repeated. "What the hell is your game, Jessica Jones?"

"Let's keep this professional," she snapped. "It won't take even forty-five minutes. Less, if you cooperate. And when Tom comes back, he can give the money he was going to give me to you. If you want that. I can arrange something."

"What do you want from me?" he demanded. Now he leaned forward, scanning her like she might be wearing her intentions on her person.

"A blood sample," she reiterated. "Mr. Baker, it's urgent. One trip to the hospital, and they'll be no more questions. I won't bother you again. Not for money, or information about Tom, or anything. I won't even look at you, if you want to go that far."

"Why?" he puzzled, utterly dumbfounded.

"It's for a case," she explained. "A different case, unrelated. Let's just say I think someone in Hell's Kitchen might be doing something, and I'm taking blood samples from plenty of other people to get to the bottom of it. It could be a matter of life and death."

He looked her over again, his internal conflict evident in his pained facial expressions. After a moment of tension and growing frustration, he finally relented. "Fine, okay, whatever. But you have to leave me alone, alright? No lawyers, no more questions-"

"Done," Jessica said. "Come on. I can get you in and out in ten minutes if we hurry."

He grumbled something, ran a hand through his hair, and stood up. "Let's just get this over with."

Jessica could hardly contain her relief.

She nodded in the most friendly way she could at the receptionist as they left, and tried not to rush too much as they made their way to Claire's hospital. When they were five minutes away, she dialed Claire's number once more.

"We'll be there in five," she informed the nurse. "How quickly do you think we can do this?" She eyed George, who watched her with no small amount of wariness as they exited their taxi and started off down the sidewalk as a brisk pace.

"Jesus, Jessica," Claire muttered. "If you're asking about the draw itself, not long. Five minutes, maybe. I don't know about the testing. It could be a while."

"I'll take whatever we can get. Where should we meet you?"

Thankfully, Mr. Baker didn't ask many questions, apparently content with the idea of Jessica finally leaving him alone, even when Claire met them in a relatively deserted area of the hospital, in what was definitely a shady situation.

"You look like shit," Claire commented upon seeing Jessica, but her eyes were worried. Jessica brushed her off, and gestured for her to lead the way. They ended up in a small room, with Claire hastily setting up the draw. The woman tried to hide her tension, but Jessica could easily spot it hiding in the set of her shoulders and the clench of her jaw.

"Can we speed this up?" Mr. Baker complained. "Believe it or not, I actually have a life outside of your ridiculous cases."

Claire blew a breath out of her cheeks. "Don't worry, it'll only be a few minutes. Here." She wound a strip of rubber around his arm, found his vein, and swiped at the area with a wipe. "Small poke," she warned, and stabbed the needle in.

She took three vials before releasing the man, and Jessica immediately ushered him out of the room.

"Here's money for your cab back," Jessica grumbled, shoving a twenty into his palm. "If you decide to call me, you know where to reach me." At his frown, she added grouchily, "But I won't contact you, okay? You're free to go. No lawyers, no money, nothing. Go on." She gave him a light push and re-entered the room once she was sure he was gone down the hall.

"Thank God," she breathed. Something in her chest released, with one task officially done. However, that just meant that she would have to turn her attention to the next one, which was the absolute last thing she wanted to do.

Claire glanced up at her, looking as pensive and anxious as Jessica felt. "I'll take these down to the lab," the nurse said. "I'll call you when I get something back, okay?" She looked up again, gaze raking clinically over Jessica. "As for you, I'm recommending sleep and a decent meal."

"I'm fine," Jessica growled. "I'm not your patient, Claire."

The nurse shrugged. "Fine. It's just some friendly advice, you aren't obliged to take it." She busied herself cleaning up, but Jessica couldn't will herself to leave. She didn't want to go back to the apartment, as much as she knew she had to.

"How's Kilgrave?" Claire finally said. Exactly what Jessica hadn't wanted to hear.

"Still an asshole," she reported. Claire had to pick up on her discomfort, but still pressed on.

"Trish called a few hours ago," she mentioned, almost casually. "She said something about him maybe remembering something?"

Jessica leaned against the wall, tilted her head back to rest against it. "Maybe. He said he'd had a 'bad thought,' and when Trish asked if it was a memory he said yes. Not conclusive, but even without him outright saying it…"

"He's acting oddly," Claire surmised. "Yeah. She didn't give me details, but she mentioned that something had happened." Without warning, she focused entirely on Jessica, dropping all attention from her cleanup process. "Are you okay?"

Jessica almost laughed. "Yeah. Of course. I don't really have a choice. It's be okay or else, so…no options there."

Claire huffed, darkly amused. "Yeah. But it's okay to let others help, Jessica. You know that, don't you?"

"Just tell me what you're getting at," Jessica said. "Cut to the chase. I don't have a lot of time to waste, Claire."

She was sure that the other woman rolled her eyes, but ignored it. "If he starts to remember anything, that's a big deal. I have people to look out for, too, you know. Call me if you suspect anything. I'll…" she paused, evidently thinking again about her words before she spoke. "I'll help. If I can. I can get him in for neurological exams, for tests, if those can possibly tell us anything. I know how to get people to talk. It's part of my job."

"Okay," Jessica allowed. She should leave. She should really leave, and keep Claire out of this, and not ask her to do anything else. But her mouth didn't seem to agree with the rest of her. "If you want to put yourself in that position, I guess I can't stop you."

"Call me," Claire ordered. "If you see any other signs. I'll help." She sighed, her eyes fluttering closed. She bit her lip. "God dammit. I really shouldn't. But I will."

"Okay," Jessica said again. She took a breath, then pushed herself fully upright. "I'll call you. Let me know when you get your results."

Claire opened her eyes, nodded.

Jessica swept out the door, and tried to calm herself enough to call Trish and give her report.

"Good," Trish replied, when Jessica had recounted it all. "Not good, even. Great. Fantastic. At least there's that, right?"

"Some small gift in all of this shit," Jessica grumbled.

Carefully, Trish said, "Now we have to deal with Kilgrave. Maybe not right now, but-"

"I know," Jessica interrupted. "Believe me, I know."

She wanted nothing more than to throw her phone, scream, and run away from it all.

She kept walking.

* * *

The Doctor woke up quickly the next time he fell asleep, and as soon as his eyes popped open to reveal darkness and quiet, he was filled with an incoherent swell of some unnamable, terrible feeling. It wasn't really anger, but it wasn't not anger either. Sadness, but not exactly. Fear, but not exactly that either. But it was acute, and painful, and for a moment all he could do was stare into Jessica's dark living room and try to catch his breath.

He could feel that there were others in the apartment - Jessica and Trish probably. No one had come to peek in on him, and since he'd been breathing rather loudly upon his quick awakening, he assumed that they were asleep. However, they might as well have been light years away for all the comfort that their distant presence brought him. He felt both filled with emotion, and utterly without it at the same time. It was odd, and unsettling, and for the first time he wanted nothing more than to escape back into sleep, where things were simpler.

When he finally sat up, he did so carefully, and as quietly as possible. He didn't feel rested, but the mind-numbing exhaustion of before had vanished. It must have been more than fifteen minutes that he'd been asleep, then. The unsettled, prickly, aching feeling refused to dissipate, although he breathed and waited and tried to distract himself with other things, like his complaining stomach and stinging injuries.

Standing proved to be a mistake, as it sent everything spiraling, and he felt like he might pass out again. But he kept moving, leaning heavily on the walls as he blindly stumbled in the direction of the kitchen. He felt as though he was making a lot of noise, but no one came to check in on him. His only company was the steady blinking red of the sensor, and the occasional noise from the street outside. He waited, leaning on what he assumed was the counter, for the dizziness to settle down, but it never really did. He could only stand there, silently spinning, the anger-sadness-fear unrelenting and hearts-stopping.

He needed food, if he wanted to be useful. He knew this, but it was incredibly hard to will himself to keep going, to fumble for the nearest available item on the counter - an open, half-emptied bag of crisps. He shoved a few in his mouth, the grease slick on his fingers, and allowed his legs to fall underneath him. He landed on the floor painfully and awkwardly, and his wounds burned, having had so much pressure put on them during his short escapade. Chewing was an event of its own, and took more energy than he'd expected. By the time he'd unhappily swallowed, he was frustratingly worn out again.

But then, what had he expected? This was his punishment, wasn't it? It was what he'd intended, wasn't it?

How foolish could he get?

He leaned his head against the nearest surface - Jessica's cabinets - and screwed his eyes shut. His stomach was already rebelling against the grease, growling unhappily and cramping without warning, and his head was aching again, and he stung and hurt all over, and his chest was tight with that anger-sorrow-fear that wouldn't leave him alone…

 _You're being childish again,_ he scolded himself. _You've gone through worse than this. Stand up and deal with it. Or don't stand up. But you don't have a choice but to bear it, do you?_

If only he had the TARDIS with him. And at that thought, she hummed soothingly in his mind, a balm for his frazzled nerves and spinning head. It didn't make them go away, but eased them ever so slightly. She'd been awfully quiet recently, he noted with a sigh. But then, what good would it do for her to worry and fret when there was nothing to be done? They were separated, and from a distance she could only do so much. It had to be just as painful for her as it was for him. There was a certain amount of difference between physical and mental closeness. Both were valuable, but individually they had their limitations.

Her presence ebbed away - stayed, of course, with him always, but she had to conserve some energy. It was about time to visit Cardiff for a refueling, the Doctor supposed. But who knew when they would get to that, the way things were currently going?

He heard a small creak, and his eyes shot open. Someone in the hall, he guessed after another creak sounded. So someone had heard him after all, apparently. He tilted his head, ever so slightly, towards the doorway, just in time to see a figure that was unmistakably Trish edge into view. She clicked on the light, and he winced away, surprised at the pain that shot through his head.

"Why are you on the floor?" she asked, with perhaps more worry than the situation warranted. Or maybe he was the one in the wrong. Underreacting.

"Floors are very underrated," the Doctor assured her, cracking an eye open to gauge her response. She just frowned. "They're more comfortable than you'd expect, really. Also," he added, "good spot for a rest. The kitchen is very far away from the couch, did you know that?"

It was maybe 10 feet, at most, and by Trish's deepening frown, she had come to the same conclusion. All she said, however, was, "you probably shouldn't be walking on those injuries."

He elected to ignore her, as he was immediately distracted by a particularly powerful cramp in his stomach. He couldn't help his face from twisting in pain and displeasure, and not curling into a ball took all of his restraint.

"You're in pain," Trish stated, on the edge of anxious, but fighting for calm. Again, the Doctor decided not to respond, and just leaned against the cabinets again. "Tell me what's wrong, and I might be able to help."

He sighed. "Where do I begin?" He knew the words would make her angry, drive her off. He knew he should be grateful for her help, should respond honestly and appreciate whatever kindness she was willing to offer him. But somehow he couldn't stop himself. He felt strangely as if he stood on the edge of a cliff, and although he could easily step back to safety, his body refused to respond.

"You said maybe I shouldn't be nice to you," Trish finally said, after a frosty, tense silence. "Honestly, I shouldn't. I feel like a piece of shit every time I do anything for you, and now with the way you're acting, and the remembering thing...but I'm still trying, because you keep giving me these ridiculous puppy dog eyes like you're begging for help. But then when I try to do anything, you say things like that."

"You don't need to help me," the Doctor explained, without looking at her. He couldn't make himself meet her eyes, partially because he wasn't sure he'd be able to properly focus on her, and partially because he was afraid he would give her one of those looks she apparently hated so much. It wouldn't be on purpose, but he knew this body too well now, and he knew it would happen despite his best efforts. Because maybe, he considered with dismay, he actually did need help this time around.

Before he could take it back - through he still wasn't sure if he would - Trish was shaking her head, saying "fine," and walking away. Maybe she was relieved, the Doctor thought, listening to her frustrated retreat to the bedroom. She'd even said that she felt guilty helping him. He was doing her a favor. And his ego, perhaps, but he knew more than anyone else that his arrogance would one day be the end of him. He just hoped that that day wouldn't be today.

It was exactly twenty minutes later that he was able to drag himself up to standing once more. He was still dizzy enough that moving with any kind of coordination was a difficult ordeal, and his stomach was still vocally protesting his poor decisions, but he managed to stagger to the fridge and locate something edible. He picked up the first thing that grabbed his attention - lunch meat, he suspected ham - opened the package, and reluctantly peeled off two slices to shove into his mouth. He didn't taste much of it, too busy trying not to let it all come right back up, and all too soon he was back on the floor, leaning against the closed fridge this time.

He was certain, several times, that he would throw up and have to do it all over again, but at the last minute, each time, his body relented and let him be. It was not restful, sitting there. He pressed his cheek against the cold of the refrigerator door the minute he became aware of how hot he was. The shower he had taken earlier was quickly rendered pointless. He was sweating, and lying on the floor was doing him no favors in the cleanliness department. He hoped no dirt accidentally slipped through his bandages - an infection was the last thing he was looking to add to his list of ailments at this point.

The couch would certainly be more comfortable, he was sure, if only he could get there. The lunch meat was slowly working through him, but although he could feel the dizziness retreating, the nausea and fatigue stayed constant. Not to mention his stinging injuries. Or the anger-sadness-fear, which was morphing now into something more like pained disappointment. Maybe if he called for Trish, she would come back and help him to the couch. Or at least get him a pillow. He kind of didn't want her to, though, at the same time. For his own pride's sake, if nothing else, he'd rather everyone else stay out of it.

Fortunately, he'd had the good sense to leave the ham out, and so forced down another slice. "Bleh," he said, just to fill the silence, and resealed the package. "Preservatives. Americans, always with the…" he trailed off, and sighed. Let his head hit the fridge again.

The apartment slowly started to lighten at around 7am. At that point, the Doctor was feeling slightly better than before, but not by much. He listened for any sign that Trish or Jessica were awake, but the small apartment stayed utterly silent, but for the city coming to life below. Just sitting and waiting would have been torturously boring, if not for all of the aches and pains to occupy his thoughts. Staying still and quiet throughout kept him plenty busy. And so did thinking through Trish's comments again: what had she meant by remembering, exactly? He'd mentioned memories, yes, but nothing specific. Not about _remembering_ anything. What, exactly, was going on?

At 8, buzzing distracted the Doctor from his thoughts, and he sat up slightly to listen. A faint creaking sounded from Jessica's room, and a few quiet thumps. Then, a sleepy and barely-audible, "What?"

 _Ever the professional_ , the Doctor thought.

"Already? Jesus." There was another creak, and the soft thudding of sleep-dulled movement. But judging by Jessica's tone, she was quickly waking up. "Yeah, I'm on my way over. Give me fifteen minutes."

The Doctor assumed now would be a good time to move, before she saw him in his pathetic position in front of her refrigerator, and so very carefully pushed himself up. His stomach flipped warningly, but he had no real option but to keep pushing on. He listened to Jessica answer Trish's questions - "it's Claire, she's got info for us" - and made cautious, halting movements toward the couch while she was preoccupied. He'd only made it just outside the doorway by the time she rounded the corner, and he was forced to straighten up and flash her a smile, or else suffer through questioning.

However, her eyes still raked critically over him, apparently taking stock of every last detail in a fashion that made the Doctor's skin crawl. He knew he looked a mess - he could feel the dried sweat all over him, feel his hair sticking wildly all over the place, feel that he was still flushed. His only defense was a smile, and the most harmless expression he had in his arsenal.

"What did you do?" Jessica grumbled. The Doctor worried for a moment that she was actually upset, but she just seemed irritated. Like she'd caught him sneaking cookies from the cookie jar. She glanced over him once more, and stalked into the kitchen.

"What? Why do I always have to be _doing_ something?" he complained. Unfortunately, Jessica moving behind him meant that, in order to keep up appearances, he had to turn around, which took more thought and energy than it should have. He did turn, however, and came face-to-face with the package of ham. It was dangling directly in front of his face, but was quickly snatched away. Jessica was very obviously not pleased.

"If you're going to raid my fridge, at least put everything back where you found it," she snapped. "I'm on a budget, okay? I can't afford for my stuff to spoil."

The Doctor swallowed, attempted another harmless smile. "Sorry, sorry. Just got a bit peckish in the night. Where are you off to, then?"

She turned, with the ham, back to the fridge, and placed it in its rightful spot. "The drug analyzation is done, way earlier than expected. I'm going to see what Claire has to say." She straightened up, and moved to meet his eyes. Hers were unexpectedly grim; dark and furious. "Also, if you upset Trish again, I'm going to punch you."

The Doctor felt yet another spike of remorse, and nodded. "I'm sorry," he tried to say, but she was already sweeping past him again, and was out of the apartment before the words had finished echoing around it. There was no way Trish hadn't heard the entire exchange, but the Doctor heard no more creaks or movements to indicate that she was coming to speak to him herself. So for the moment he was alone. Again.

* * *

 **Thanks for reading, everyone! I've gotten a lot of great feedback over the past couple weeks, which I really appreciate! Please keep telling me what you think! :) And I hope you all have a great week!**


	13. Chapter 13

**Chapter 13**

"Whatever it is," Jessica announced as she entered the apartment a couple of hours later, without preamble or explanation, "it's something Claire's never seen before. Nobody in the hospital had any idea at all."

The Doctor looked up from the distracted doodling he'd been doing, sat at Jessica's desk, and frowned. So, likely not human kidnappers, then. He'd suspected as much, but the lack of recognition of the drug at all only affirmed his suspicions. However, that also meant that his work here would become more complicated; it always was, when aliens got involved in normal human lives. There would be the actual death-stopping, and then the explanations, and the questions, and the running away…all that not even counting the work he would have to do to find out who exactly was responsible for it all in the first place. When the scope of responsible parties was widened to most every species in the universe, things inevitably became difficult.

And, well, there was of course this whole...Kilgrave mess.

Trish, where she had been holed out in Jessica's room, avoiding the Doctor entirely, finally emerged. She didn't spare him a glance, sporting a similar frown aimed in Jessica's direction. "It must be some new version of something, then. They had no clue about any of it?"

Jessica huffed out a frustrated breath, shrugged her jacket off. "They're still looking into it. So far, no. We know the effects already, but apparently that's not what they need to figure it out. Chemical composition-wise. That's the only way we can come up with an antidote, or some other way to speed up the digestion of it."

"Messy stuff, drugs," the Doctor commented. He glanced down at the paper he'd been scribbling on. He'd been trying to come up with more questions for the families of the kidnappees, more questions for Jessica and Trish, more guesses as to what the purpose of the kidnappings could be. He'd begun in English, he was sure, but somewhere along the line it had blurred into Gallifreyan. As the languages were in no way similar, appearance-wise, the transition was sharp and odd-looking on the page. All useless information anyway, the Doctor thought with a flash of anger, and in a quick motion crumpled the whole thing up. "Never something to get involved in if you can help it," he finished. "I heard once-"

"Malcolm texted and said he has some new pictures," Trish offered. The Doctor received not a single acknowledgement. "He didn't know how useful they'd be, but it might give us something."

"Yeah, yeah," Jessica muttered. "There's nothing else to do. I'll go see some of the clients again, I guess, see if they've remembered anything else. Who knows, maybe the drug is still somehow in effect, and we'll turn up something useful." But her tone was dark, utterly without hope.

"I'll go see Malcolm then," Trish decided. "Meet back here, go over anything we find?"

Jessica nodded, already pulling her jacket on again. Trish disappeared again to get herself around. The Doctor just clutched his ball of paper, and felt something clench angry and painful in his chest. He could feel the sensor like a dead weight on his ankle now, and with every small movement it seemed to drag on him. He grit his teeth.

"What can I do?" he prompted, when Jessica didn't immediately give him a task.

She didn't even look at him. "Nothing," she said. "Stay here. Look over the pictures again if you want. I don't care. Just keep out of the way."

Normally he was the one saying that to other people. It wasn't nearly so fun on the other end of it.

"Do I get my phone back? I can take calls," he offered. He just needed something, anything, to do, or he thought he might go mad.

"No." And that was it.

Within twenty minutes, the apartment was empty but for him. And he was all too aware that he didn't make terribly great company, especially not for himself.

He stood the minute that Trish's footsteps faded completely from his hearing, and retrieved his familiar brown suit. Threw it on. Returned to the living room, started to pace. An ill-advised decision, certainly, but he was suddenly filled with restless energy, like he hadn't been for quite some time now. The hunger, or the exhaustion, or the fear had been sapping it, it seemed, and now that two out of the three were somewhat abated, he had nothing to focus on. He paced and paced, his mind racing without any real coherent train of thought, just the need to do _something_. Every movement burned at his injuries, but he kept going, kept going. He didn't know what else to do.

When the Doctor finally slowed, he was hit with a brief wave of vertigo, and stumbled to the nearest wall to hold himself upright as he breathed through it. The second it passed he was moving again, pulling out the pictures and flipping through them. _A new perspective,_ he reasoned. _I'm rested, not starving…surely I missed something before._ But he just kept seeing the dark figures, the car without the license plate, the struggling victim. The list of names flashed in his mind's eye, a sharp reminder of what was at stake.

 _Nothing, nothing, nothing nothing nothing…_

He was helpless. Completely helpless, without even a child's mobile phone to take frantic calls from people he should have been able to help. His chest clenched. His hearts beat an angry tattoo in his chest, louder in his ears than they should have been.

He threw the photos, watched them flutter into the air and fall with whispers to the floor. His hands, he found, were shaking again, from something other than exhaustion this time.

 _Don't do this again_ , he thought. _You can't let yourself do this again._ Although he had felt it coming, he still startled himself when he swept everything off of Jessica's desk to the floor in one clean motion.

She'd had a small lamp resting there, but within moments it was in two pieces on the floor. All of her papers and carefully arranged notes were spread haphazardly throughout the room. Their former order was utterly lost.

"Oh," the Doctor said. Everything was suddenly so quiet, he couldn't help but notice. His ears rang faintly, and his single word was uncomfortably loud in the complete silence. "No, no, no." He crouched, or half-fell, to the floor and hastily tried to sweep it all back up in his arms, broken lamp and all. The bulb hadn't broken entirely, he noticed, but it was cracked. The lamp itself, though, thin and wooden, had snapped completely.

He'd done it again, he realized. Wanted to help, found himself helpless, and lashed out instead. The Time Lord Victorious, rearing his head, angry and bitter and wild. The Kilgrave hidden inside him that he was so terrified would emerge.

And then he realized what Trish had been talking about when she'd said 'remembering.'

 _They think I'm turning back into Kilgrave_. The thought came to him numbly. He dropped the lamp back to the floor, leaned back a little.

 _They might be right. Only, not back. Just...turning into_.

He pushed himself back, away, until he hit the desk and was forced to stop. His hearts beat uncontrollably in his ears, drowning out everything else. _It's already happening_ , he thought. _He could be me, from just a few decades off. Not long from now. Me._

Those thoughts had been lurking in the background of his mind for some time. But it was only now that they came roaring forward in all of their full horror.

He was already far gone enough that he'd manipulated the timeline in an effort to wrench back control. And although he'd promised himself not to let himself go that far again, who knew how things could change in years to come? He was already pushing back again.

He didn't know what to do. What was he supposed to do?

It was at exactly that moment that he heard a pained, horrible _yelp_ come from outside.

It took a second for him to assess the situation, but the instant he determined it was a child's cry, from incredibly too close, he was up and moving, despite everything. He left the lamp, left his remaining mess, left even the most pressing of his horrors, and rushed to the window, heedless of his body's protests. He was careful to keep his sensor-clad foot carefully inside the apartment, but he pushed the window open and leaned his head and shoulders outside.

No child in sight, he noted with a sinking of the gut. Nothing was there at all, it seemed at first, before he caught his eyes sliding curiously over _something_ in the road. He blinked, refocused, leaned the slightest bit closer.

A black vehicle, shiny and pristine. Completely license-less.

 _Perception filter_ , he thought. _I was wrong about that, then. Not a terribly strong one, but it's obviously fooled law enforcement well enough. Malcolm must be incredibly observant, then - it would explain why no one else has seemed to notice, especially if some of these kidnappings are happening at midday._

His hearts pounded anew, but he felt no real fear. Even his anger had burned down into something manageable, leaving mostly a dull dread, heavy enough that it settled in his limbs.

This was an opportunity, one he might not get again. One he almost certainly wouldn't get again, now that he thought about it. He was lucky, but not that lucky. But he could still feel the sensor, a dead weight on his ankle, and Jessica's threats from when she'd first strapped it to him rang in his head.

 _Oh_ , but he had a plan. He could use those threats to his advantage.

Hardly a second had passed since his first assessment of the situation - there was still time.

He slid his trainers on over his bandages, stole his coat from Jessica's closet and slid into it as easily as ever. He patted the sensor, gave one last look out the window to determine that he was still in the clear, and turned to face the door.

"Come on, Doctor," he murmured. "Get captured, let them follow the GPS to your location. Simple. Great plan, fantastic plan." He bent down one last time, and clumsily fit the leg of his trousers over the sensor, to disguise it slightly better. It still looked odd, but less so with the blinking red light somewhat hidden. Maybe, by doing this, he could start to try and make things up to everyone else. Maybe this was a more constructive kind of control. "Allons-y," he whispered, and left Jessica Jones' apartment.

* * *

The second he left the doorway, the sensor buzzed violently against his ankle. He felt it rattle the bones, even as he thundered down the hallway. It buzzed three times before quieting. _Three strikes and you're out_ , the Doctor thought, restraining a (maybe a little hysterical) laugh. He ignored the elevator and raced down the stairs. His only guide was his own intuition - he realized he'd never seen the outside of Jessica's building before now. But there was another cry, as soon as he'd left the building, to give him a hint.

All too aware that he was running out of time - and what an interesting thought for a Time Lord to have - he poured every last ounce of energy he had into running. His coat whipped behind him, he startled a few passersby. His feet hurt, but he learned quickly to ignore it.

It was just like none of it had happened at all, if he ignored the sensor bobbing violently at his ankle.

He rounded the corner, into an alley, and came face-to-face with the dark figures of Malcolm's pictures. This time, their victim was clearly visible - a terrified boy, probably not more than seven years old, all wide brown eyes and tears and hitching breath, painfully gagged. The sight sent all of the Doctor's previous anger flooding back into him like it had never left. But this time, he turned it from burning frustration into a cold, icy fury.

"Put him down," the Doctor ordered. Flat, hard, without any room for argument. He felt a little more like himself, in that moment. Who he was supposed to be, without a trace of Kilgrave in him.

One of the figures, still managing to be dark even in the light of the early afternoon, turned. If the Doctor had to put a name to the movement, he would have called it _surprised._

The creature wore a hood, but the Doctor caught a glimpse of cold blue flesh underneath before shadows enveloped it again. Well, that helped, if only minimally. "Back away, human," it said. Deepish voice, an accent which elongated o's and created nasally n's. "This is not your business."

"But see," the Doctor countered, "it kind of is. I've made it my business. Also, a correction for you." He waved a still-bandaged hand, gave a smile that was not a smile. "Not human, actually. Very much not. So, you see, I'm much more valuable that him over there. In many ways. He's just a kid, see. Whatever you want, I can provide it." He allowed his voice to drop into something resembling friendly. "Just let him go, and I'll come without a fight."

The creature paused, but only briefly. It let out a slight rumble that might have been a laugh. The boy sniffled, and jerked helplessly in the grip of his captors. The Doctor's jaw clenched as another wave of anger broke over him. "Such arrogance," the creature said. "If you aren't human, then you aren't necessary."

"Hold on," the Doctor interrupted. "I take offense to that, thank you very much. And what good are humans, anyway? Sure, they can be fun, but in the long run I'm _much_ more entertaining, I promise you." He caught the boy's eye, tried to look encouraging. If anything, the boy just looked afraid of _him_ now. Oh, this was not how he'd imagined this would go. And surely Jessica and her friend that he didn't want to meet would be catching up to him soon. He didn't have much time. Not much time at all.

Another of the creatures drifted over. Again, the Doctor caught a flash of blue, and this time the bright wink of an eye underneath the hood. "Not human," it repeated, in a slightly higher voice than its colleague, "not necessary."

The Doctor didn't quite know what to expect next, but it was not to be sprayed in the face with something misty and sickly sweet. He opened his mouth to say _something_ \- another order, a demand, a " _what the hell?"_ \- but instead found himself gagging as the entire universe flipped around him, sending his stomach turning over with it.

He regained awareness on his hands and knees. Concrete bit into his fingers, left exposed by the bandages, and the pressure had all points of contact with the ground searing with pain. Besides that, most things didn't make much sense. He was in the alley, he could tell that much, but his entire sense of direction was entirely thrown off. He had no idea how much time had passed since he'd been sprayed with whatever it had been. And those memories, from however long ago, were now going fuzzy and strange. Hiding themselves behind doors in his mind that didn't want him to see them. But everything else was very, very loud, drowning out any real thoughts he tried to pull together.

The Doctor could hear horns blaring and cars rushing by, people talking and going about their days. Nobody seemed to notice him, and none of them seemed to have noticed the confrontation from earlier.

 _Perception filter. Had to have been a stronger one this time._

He couldn't filter any of the noise out. Besides that, everything else was loud, too, in a different sense. Each feeling was magnified to the point of near pain. When he forced his eyes open, everything was too bright, blurry and nonsensical. Each one of the many scents of the city burned his nose, and he couldn't for the life of him figure out what each smell was. They just hit him in a wall, over and over. Resting as he was on the ground, on his injuries, was becoming something like agony. And he could hear the TARDIS, louder than she'd ever been, singing something frantic and desperate and afraid. It was like the sleep Trish had forced him into had never happened, like he'd never choked down that ham or tried to fix the damage he'd already done. It was worse than all that, even.

 _Keep moving_ , he thought. The thought nearly vanished in everything else his brain was attempting to process, but he managed to hold onto it. It was important, he knew that much. _Keep going. Jessica, her friend…not going to be happy._

If he could get to the TARDIS, everything would be fine.

If he could get to the TARDIS, everything would be fine.

It took several attempts, but he got to his feet. The world swam, all of its sharp, blurry shapes and colors wavering around him. The TARDIS was more chanting than singing now, a reminder of his mission. Although any sense of direction he'd once had was missing, it was impossible to ignore her, or how she broadcasted her location to him above all of the chaos.

"That's my girl," he breathed. He pushed off of the wall, fully upright. "That's my girl." He wobbled, and every step was a torment like he hadn't experienced in a while, but he walked. Out of the alley, onto the street, onward towards his TARDIS.

He could see, but not much of what he saw fully entered his brain. It was mostly white noise - loud, painful white noise. He could hear, but on that front things went much the same way, if slightly better with some focus. He was essentially blind and deaf, for all the good those senses, or any of the rest of them for that matter, were doing for him. He stumbled along, and felt like a walking wound, bare and open to the world. He caught a few faces, but they just looked right past him, pointedly ignoring him, as if he might go away if they did. He tried to go away, kept walking, but it didn't feel like he was making much progress. He couldn't tell how long it was that he'd been going. He felt that surely Jessica would have found him by now.

It was incredibly difficult to focus on anything but walking and feeling for the TARDIS, so he tried not to. His world, for now, was nothing but wave upon wave of unprocessed information, spinning thoughts, wobbly steps, and bursts of pain, accompanied by his ship's constant soundtrack of encouragement and fear for his wellbeing.

No, this wasn't at all what he'd wanted or expected when he'd left the apartment.

He blinked, and he was somewhere familiar. Or he thought it was familiar, from what he could determine of the place. He walked on, searching for some other sign. He forgot to keep searching not long after it occurred to him to search, but he could feel that he was close now.

If he could get to the TARDIS, everything would be fine.

He was dizzy now, and it was more than whatever he'd been drugged with. He blinked, and a wave of devastating hunger descended on him. Oh, yes. That.

But he was close, and if he could get to the TARDIS, then everything would be fine.

Close, close, close. She was practically shouting now, inasmuch as she could shout, as he staggered around a corner, into another alley.

Straight into something warm, startled, and Wrong.

"Woah!" the something - someone - exclaimed. Hands on his elbows, firm and heavy, stopping him from falling backwards. "Holy shit, Doc. You look awful."

Wrong. Only one thing was Wrong like that. The Doctor shook his head, tried to gather his thoughts. Daleks, and Satellite Five, Rose, the Bad Wolf…how had this slipped by him? He probably couldn't have gotten into New York in the past few minutes, or in the time the Doctor had been stumbling around trying to find the TARDIS. Unless it had been much longer than he'd thought. But where were Jessica and Trish? How had he missed Jack the Fact?

"Hey, hey, hey," Captain Jack Harkness said. It took a very long moment for any of his words to sink in. "Look at me." The Doctor tried, but Jack was, for now, nothing more than another too-bright figure. He couldn't find eyes, unless he really focused, and he had to dedicate all of his attention to staying standing and trying to think through this problem. "Doctor."

No one had called him 'Doctor' in quite a long time, he realized.

"Can't," he tried to explain. "You're all…sharp." In more ways than one. Now that he had noticed, Jack's Wrongness was impossible to ignore. The Doctor waved a hand, or tried to. Jack was still gripping his arms, even harder now. It was not pleasant. Jack's very presence scraped at him, but with the current situation it was almost welcome. A kind of grounding, as he was feeling increasingly more disconnected from himself.

"Okay," Jack sighed. "So you've been drugged."

"Sprayed," the Doctor mumbled. "In the face."

"In other circumstances I would make a joke," Jack informed him. He was probably smiling, but the Doctor couldn't tell. "But now we should probably get you into the TARDIS, yeah?"

Yes, that. That was what he was supposed to be doing. "Yes, right," the Doctor agreed. "TARDIS, good." Then he paused, confusion coming to the surface. "How did you get here? _Why_ are you here?"

"I got a message," Jack explained, taking something out of his pocket. "You leant me your psychic paper?"

Well. He didn't remember that at all. "I did?"

"You _will_ lend it to me," Jack amended. "Future you."

Future him. Oh. Well. The Doctor let it go, with a weak nod, and turned his attention back to their mission. Jack's arm settled about the Doctor's waist, a warm, welcome weight, and his other hand gripped at the Doctor's upper arm. This was the first time someone had really touched him, he thought, almost giddy with the thought. How strange. He forgot the mystery of Jack's appearance, content for a moment to sink into what little comfort he could find.

His only warning that it was about to fall apart was the TARDIS suddenly halting in her song. The whole world seemed to go silent for a moment. The Doctor's head spun, but his fractured senses couldn't pull together a picture of what he was missing. Jack went taut beside him, whispering "shit" under his breath-

"Step apart," a familiar voice demanded from the entrance of the alley. "Now." Something clicked. "I don't want to use this, but I will."

Jack squeezed the Doctor's arm, and vanished from his side. The Doctor, for his part, tried to find a nearby wall to lean against, overwhelmed with the sudden surety that he was going to fall, but that attempt was almost immediately interrupted when a hand squeezed around his neck.

The Doctor was hit with a swell of alien anger, betrayal, fear, pain, utter desolation, a pretty woman smiling, her eyes sparkling, pain like icicles freezing and stabbing inside of his chest-

He gasped, half from oxygen deprivation, and half from shock, as it all retreated within half an instant. He almost slid down the wall he'd been slammed against at some point, but then there was something else at his throat, blocking his airway again. Cold now, leather or something else slippery and soft. An arm within a coat.

"Are you high?" a low voice demanded. Fingers grabbed at his face, and again the wave came. Disbelief with it now, too, like a knife to the gut. Again, the woman, now in a wedding dress, hands lifting a delicate veil from her face. Then a flash of none other than his own face, pale and snarling, the tightness of utter horror curling in his chest. The hand dug into his skin, and the images that were not his bled into images that were - Jack's hand over his mouth-

Gone. He realized his hands had been scrabbling at his attacker's arm when they fell weakly to his sides as his legs gave out. He blinked, tried to make out whatever he could of his attacker, but all he got was spots.

"Thank you," Jack breathed, harsh and relieved.

"Shut up," the attacker ordered, low and grave.

Another familiar voice piped up. "Tell us what the hell is going on, or we're going to have trouble."

"In other circumstances," Jack began dryly, "I'd be more than happy to give you everything I have, but currently I don't think any of it would be of much help. I quite literally _just_ got here."

"And yet you two are sitting here acting all chummy," the voice snarked.

Jessica, the Doctor thought. Right. So Trish was probably the other voice, and the attacker…

"The only person who has any real answers is probably him," Jack countered, "but I doubt that anything he has to say to you is going to make a whole lot of sense right now."

"Because he decided to shoot up," the attacker finished.

Jack made a sharp noise at that. "No. He doesn't do that. It's not his fault - well, it might be his fault, inadvertently, but…tell them what you told me, Doc."

It took a moment of catching up, and another prompting to speak from Jack, for the Doctor to understand what he meant. "Oh. Yes. Sprayed in the face." He wrinkled his nose, recalling more than anything the taste. "Too sweet, didn't taste very good. Would not recommend."

"Yeah," Jack put in, cleanly cutting off the Doctor's trailing speech. "There."

The Doctor realized that his eyes were closed, and hesitantly opened them. Everything was just as he'd left it - too bright, too sharp and blurry at the same time. There were new shapes now, two smaller shapes and one larger one. And Jack, solid and Wrong across the alley. The Doctor could almost see his timeline, bright and tangled and painful.

"Look," Jack sighed. "I'm sensing a lot of tension to be resolved here. Why don't we deal with that when we _aren't_ in an alley, hm?"

"You expect us to trust you?" Jessica growled.

"You can do whatever you need to do to us that makes you feel safe," Jack replied. "Knock me out, tie me up, whatever. But _he_ needs to lie down, and the rest of you lot look like you could use a drink or five, hm? Or some kind of breather. I won't put up a fight, I promise. I want answers as much as you do."

Silence. The Doctor got momentarily lost in the continuing life going on beyond the alley, the TARDIS' worried hum, the thrum of pain throughout his body, and he apparently missed something important, as the next thing he knew he was being hauled upright by a very rough and unhappy somebody.

"We can go to my place," someone said. Trish? "It's closer. I've got places to keep them, an extra room."

"Fine," Jessica bit out. "Let's just fucking do it."

The Doctor was half-shoved forward, though his minder kept a hand firmly closed around his upper arm at all times, and was made to walk again.

Behind him, the TARDIS seemed to mourn.

* * *

 **Surprise!**

 **I needed to bring someone in to help the Doctor out, as he wasn't about to do it himself, and Jack seemed like a good choice.**

 **However, important: I'm ignoring COE entirely, and basically I've constructed an entire new future for the Torchwood gang. Everyone is alive and happy, Jack and Ianto are together...they still have all the mess of Torchwood to deal with, but it's slightly less messy than canon. Mostly because I didn't want to deal with it, if I'm being honest, and I haven't watched enough Torchwood to make a terribly accurate depiction of the events of the later seasons. Sorry for my laziness, but they're happier this way lmao. If you want, we can say that it just happens later on in their timeline. Just...shove it back a bit.**

 **The next few chapters are very little action, very much H/C, and lots of character conflict. I'll probably end up cutting some of it out as, upon looking at things to edit, some of it is probably a little unnecessary, but since I have a super busy week now that the semester is close to over I don't know if I'll get to that. So there are two possibilities: I publish a chapter next week that I'm not necessarily happy with, or I wait an extra day or two and publish a chapter I'm likely to be more satisfied with.**

 **I love reading and writing H/C but this story already has a lot (or, at least, the H part), and the Doctor's been through the wringer enough as it is. However, I'm not sure how to cut the majority of that to a reasonable level without sacrificing much-needed character exploration/development, since a lot of that only occurs because of the Doctor's current predicament, so...we'll see. Also, the Doctor deserves some C, which is much of the following chapters. So, anyway, I'll figure that out.**

 **If I end up posting a day late, though, don't be too surprised. I'll try not to, but don't kill me if it happens! :)**

 **That all said, thanks for reading, and please tell me what you think! :)**


	14. Chapter 14

**Chapter 14**

Jessica had been sure, when her phone had buzzed, that it was just Trish, checking in on her progress with Claire. Claire had been speaking, mumbling something about sedatives or narcotics as she'd been flipping through the pages the lab had given her about the drug. Jessica had taken out her phone, feeling more anxious than she'd felt in a long time, and the second she'd taken in what was on her screen, it got a whole lot worse.

 _KILGRAVE ESCAPED._ The location, neatly spelled out. Jessica's heart had pounded, she'd felt so dizzy she'd thought she might faint.

"Jessica?" Claire had prompted, in a way that suggested it hadn't been the first time. "Jessi-"

"Kilgrave's gone," Jessica had croaked, and fled.

It hadn't taken long for Luke to find her, either. He'd called her before even Trish, and his voice had been stone cold, and so incredibly furious that Jessica could hardly believe he was even able to speak, let alone to her of all people. She'd just given him her location, and kept walking. She'd tried not to think too much, tried to focus on the task ahead. When Trish called, Jessica had followed the same routine. They'd all met up along the way, and kept walking. Luke had been steely silent, darkly casting looks that Jessica had felt digging into her.

"Why?" he'd asked once. It was all he'd said to her.

"I'll explain," she'd replied, but she hadn't known what to say. Everything had been crumbling, in ways she'd only imagined.

When they reached Trish's apartment what felt like hours later, laden with prisoners and responsibility, she was both relieved and terrified beyond comprehension.

"Hey lady," the man she and Trish had been guarding said, "can you try not to break my wrist, please and thank you? I'm game for anything, but now doesn't seem like the appropriate time to get rough."

He fucking winked, and Jessica almost lost it. Trish was already stepping away, the minute the door to the apartment was closed behind them. The newest prisoner didn't even flinch at the steel in Jessica's expression, just kept smirking in a way that just _invited_ her to snap him in half.

"J-J-Jack," Kilgrave rasped. " _Don't_." Jessica kept a careful eye on him as Luke pushed him onto Trish's couch. She didn't know what she expected - for him to jump up and run, or grin that vile grin from so long ago, or start attacking them all - but he did nothing at all. He stayed where Luke pushed him, limp and utterly without fight. His eyes were closed. She didn't think she'd seen them open since they'd started moving.

"I want answers," Luke growled, low, dangerous, barely containing himself. "Jessica _fucking_ Jones, if you don't tell me what the hell _he's_ doing here, and what you know, I'm going to explode."

"I'm sorry," she said. She opened her mouth again, but nothing came out.

"I've got zipties," Trish said. "Let's tie them up."

"No need," the new prisoner interjected. "I'm staying put, don't worry." He started to take off his coat, as much as he could with Jessica's hand still clamped on him, until she finally released him and snatched the fabric from him. Just as her eyes caught the chunky black object strapped to his forearm, he was stripping it off and throwing it in her direction. "There," he said. "Don't fuck with it too much, please."

"What the hell?" she spat. She turned it over in her hands, noting the strange symbols. The screen was dark, and remained dark even as she prodded at the buttons.

"I could ask you the same question," he countered. He was almost more unbearable than Kilgrave, in some respects. Though, since they were apparently friends, it made some sense. And also meant that he was almost certainly an asshole. The flirting shit didn't help him in that regard, not in the slightest. Jessica, desperately needing to turn away to gather herself, and set the objects on a nearby chair.

"I want answers," Luke repeated. He loomed in Trish's living room. When he met Jessica's eyes as she turned back around, she was so full of dread that she could taste bile in the back of her throat.

The only good thing she really had was about to fall apart. She felt the faint ghost of Luke's hand on her back, warm and gentle, on her cheeks, smoothing her hair. She remembered his laugh, hesitant but just as warm as the rest of him, and she thought about losing it, and she was almost sick.

"Fine," she said. "Trish, watch those two. We need to talk."

* * *

"I'm Captain Jack Harkness," Jack was saying. The Doctor could feel him moving through the apartment - a giant, screaming Wrong. "Who are you?"

"Trish Walker," Trish replied, without any of Jack's playful warmth. "Stay in the room."

"Bossy," Jack remarked, "but okay. I understand." He sat next to the Doctor, radiating human warmth, and the Doctor found himself learning into it. "Woah, Doc, okay. Hey. Sit up." Hands on his shoulders, propping him up against the back of whatever they were sitting on. Couch? "What's up with these bandages?" Jack felt carefully at the bandage, more gentle than he perhaps needed to be. When his skin brushed the Doctor's, the Time Lord was immediately rushed with _pain, worry, frustration, curiosity,_ the memory of borrowed psychic paper with the Doctor's signature calling for help, a harried goodbye, fleeting excuses.

Jack jerked away, dropping the Doctor's hand with none of the care he'd picked it up with. "Doctor?" he asked. His voice was sharpened with something - anger, fear, worry?

"Sorry, sorry, sorry," the Doctor whispered. It took a great deal of effort to speak, more than it had before. He was tired, he realized. He'd known it before, but now, sitting down, it was overwhelming him. "No walls. Surface thoughts only, 's okay. Sorry." His chest started to clench, oddly. He'd almost forgotten Jack's slight telepathic ability. Of course he'd known when the Doctor was in his head - the Time Agency had trained their agents to detect that sort of thing.

"Okay, calm down," Jack sighed. "Easy, Doctor. You just startled me, that's all." A hand came to rest softly on his shoulder. "We're okay. Can I see your hand again? I'll be more careful."

Clumsily, the Doctor brought it up. Jack took him by the wrist, taking care to keep his hand only on the sleeve of the Doctor's coat, and carefully turned his hand over. The Doctor felt no physical contact as the former Time Agent slowly unwound the bandage, except the steady hold on his wrist. In the other room, he heard Jessica's voice spike to a shout, and another voice join her.

"Shit," Jack breathed. "What did you do?" Before the Doctor could form any kind of response, though, Jack had bent over. "You've got them on your feet, too. Jesus." He started to pull a shoe off, and a jolt of pain screamed through the Doctor, stealing his breath. But Jack didn't stop, pulled them both off, and began stripping the bandages. "What the hell happened?"

Trish dragged in a breath, and only then did the Doctor remember that she was there. Sitting nearby, it seemed, though her presence was a shaky and uncertain one in his mind. "He threw a glass," she explained curtly, though her voice was thick. "I wasn't there, I just heard…"

"Did you decide to go prancing through it?" Jack snapped. One bandage came free, and as soon as the air hit the cuts the Doctor had to grit his teeth against the onslaught of fire. More pain as the second foot was freed, then the other hand. He was practically swimming in it. Jack the Fact only continued to scrape at him, saying biting words and asking questions, his presence a constant, grounding grate. The Doctor remembered cold floors beneath them, and Jack hovering anxiously at his side, and shuddered. Jessica was yelling again. Her voice broke. Something smashed, and Trish pulled in a fearful breath. The Doctor was floating, letting the world hit him in its entirety, and he could hardly breathe.

When the pain finally began to ease, and the world started to emerge more clearly again, Jack was saying his name. The hand was on his shoulder again, but not to soothe anymore. Its grip was tight, each finger digging in like if they didn't hold on the Doctor might drift away from them. "Doctor. Doc, please, come on."

The Doctor wet his lips. One of them had split at some point, he realized. It stung, absurdly painful for such a small injury. "What?"

Jack sighed, a jagged, harried thing. "Damn. Where'd you go there, huh?" Now the touch loosened a little. Soothing again.

"Here," the Doctor whispered. "Very, very here."

Another sigh. "Okay, whatever you say. Just stay with me, all right? Why've you got your eyes closed?"

"Too bright. Stop…mothering."

"I don't see anyone else willing to do it," Jack replied, attempting cheerfulness but falling painfully flat. "Come on, you love the attention. Don't pretend you don't." Another arm came around to his other side to hold him, and he was slowly brought downwards, just slightly, until he was leaning against Jack. Human, warm, Wrong Jack. "Good?" The Doctor grunted. "It'll be okay." The Doctor could feel the hand lingering by his face, but he was still surprised when it brushed against his cheek, and more information was thrust at him.

But this time, it wasn't sharp or violent. Anything but, really. Jack was suddenly soft, pushing memories of sleepy contentment, birds singing, sunlight streaming through windows on beautiful mornings, the cool relief of shade on hot summer days, the cozy heat of the fireplace in the TARDIS library, a warm mug of tea cupped carefully in cold hands. It wasn't enough to make the Doctor forget about his current situation, but the tension in his chest eased.

He blinked his eyes open, and caught a glimpse of a pair of legs across a coffee table (Trish?), before closing them again.

"Was that okay?" Jack whispered, hesitant but very obviously hopeful. Low enough that Trish wouldn't overhear. "I did have some training, you know."

"'S fine," the Doctor assured him. "Not hard. Good job." He wanted to clap Jack on the shoulder, but he settled for tapping a finger against the man's leg. "Quick study, you are."

"Right," Jack nearly chuckled. Louder, he said, "I think you should get some sleep."

Bad idea, the Doctor knew, though he wasn't sure why. "Nonono," he mumbled. "Jack, no."

"I'll be here," Jack said. "Go to sleep. I'll wake you up if I need to. It's not the first time I've done this, you know."

"No, I don't…" Jack pulled him closer, just a little, and the Doctor's forehead touched skin - Jack's neck - and he was flooded with soft, sleepy memories. Bundled in blankets by the fire, surrounded by trees and cold night air, the warm comfort of a body fit close, hot chocolate and flushed cheeks, heavy eyes after days of running, Christmas lights against snow, three suns setting and burning the sky purple and orange.

"It's going to be okay," Jack said, his voice vibrating through the Doctor's head. "We're okay, Doc."

Maybe it was the drugs, but the Doctor believed him, and allowed himself to fade into sleep, into cozy, rainy afternoons and warm, late nights.

* * *

Keeping his surface thoughts happy took nearly all of Jack's concentration, so he couldn't afford to pay much attention to the fight going on in the room over, or to the watchful eyes of his new guard. Considering the situation, it was a miracle that he was managing at all. Their guard didn't seem too focused on them, which was a blessing, but her tension bled through the entire room as she seemed to eavesdrop on the muffled argument nearby. Jack knew that he should mind his own business, keep himself calm while the Doctor was asleep, so as not to wake him or cause him any stress, but he was itching with worry about what little information he'd gotten about the situation so far. He couldn't stop himself from looking, over and over again, at the half-healed collection of injuries on his friend's hands. His heart kept speeding up, and he only barely caught himself each time he started to slip into active fear. The Doctor, cool and heavy against his side, was depending on him. That thought alone kept him steady.

Jack closed his eyes, tried to relax. He focused on a particularly happy memory - from just days ago, sharing a cup of tea with the Torchwood staff after a long day. They'd all been exhausted, more than exhausted really, but everything had cleared up in the end, as well as could be expected. Owen had actually been near smiling, Gwen had attempted a few bad, tired jokes, and things had been quiet and peaceful. It was hardly what one would think would be a perfect moment, but when Jack remembered it he was full of something that was dangerously near contentment. Before the psychic paper, before the Doctor's message, before the hasty digging up of the Vortex Manipulator, when everything had been quiet and simple for just a moment.

When he opened his eyes again, he found Trish Walker raking her gaze over the both of them. Her mouth was pinched thin, worried and confused, her eyes focused but her mind obviously elsewhere. Pale, wound tight. When Jack caught her eyes, she immediately looked away, and took a deep breath.

"Tell me about the glass," Jack prompted, in the softest voice he could manage, while still able to be heard above the shouting.

Her face screwed up even more, and she sighed again before rubbing anxiously at her forehead. "I only know what I've been told about the situation," she warned. "From what Jessica told me, though...he went to the kitchen to make tea. Something happened, and he suddenly started throwing glasses at the wall. Jessica had to force him to stop. A lot of the pieces bounced back to him from the wall, and he stepped in some of them, and I think he had his hands on the floor at some point…" she sighed, ran a frustrated hand through her hair. "All he said about it, really, was that it was related to some kind of memory he had, or something. He wanted some control." A fearful, pensive look shadowed her face as she finished.

A cold ball of terror and rage solidified in Jack's gut, but he just nodded again. He fought for a new memory - falling asleep by the TV, Martha Jones already drifted off on the other end of the couch, her breath a steady, quiet noise after a long day. He reached for the Doctor's hand, then gently slid his fingers just under the sleeve of his coat and suit and shirt, to rest his thumb against the pulse point and feel the steady tick of two hearts. Everything was okay now. That's what he had to focus on, for both of their sakes. He could ask the Doctor about the glass later. It was concerning, but now wasn't the time.

He'd almost forgotten, having just met the eleventh version of his Doctor in all his cheerfulness, finally seeming to be somewhat happy on some level, how miserable this one had been.

"How exactly did he meet you?" Jack asked. New topic, hopefully a safer one. But the minute the words left his mouth, Trish Walker's face turned pale and drawn, and she rubbed at it distractedly.

"He doesn't remember," she began, "which is the hardest part of all of this. If he remembered, it would have been so easy." She raised her head again, gravely met Jack's eyes. "It's not nice. Jessica…she met him a while ago, before all this." Trish paused again, allowing Jack to gather up something pleasant in the back of his mind, ready to force it to the forefront when whatever she was going to say finally came out.

"I'm a big kid," he said, when she still didn't speak. "I can take it."

"He…" she paused again, and took another deep breath. "He met her on the street, decided he liked her, and then raped her."

Despite the shouting, the entire world seemed to go quiet, and Jack felt a blanket of cold and dismay settle over him. "No," he protested. "No, he wouldn't do that." His mind raced, trying to comprehend such an idea. "No."

Trish, for her credit, looked slightly sympathetic. "I know, it's hard to digest," she allowed. "I'm sorry. But that's the truth."

"There has to be some mistake," Jack tried, but she shook her head.

"It's him," she said. "I promise."

Not this him, Jack reasoned wildly. Maybe a future him. The pocket watch, the whatever it was that turned Time Lords human. Not really the Doctor, a dark, terrible version of the Doctor. Or an imposter of some kind.

"He went by Kilgrave," she continued. "Now, I guess, he doesn't. He lost all memory of it, we don't know how. We're still trying to work it out. We thought he was dead," she added, much more quietly. Resentful, Jack thought with a spike of resentment himself.

He thought about asking if Kilgrave had been human. If he'd mentioned that at all, if they even knew. He debated about whether to test how much they knew about the Doctor, ask about the Time Lords or time travel or Gallifrey. Thought about mentioning that he'd known the Doctor for longer than any of the humans in the apartment would ever live, and that he was _sure_ such a horrifying idea had never so much as crossed the Time Lord's mind in all of his travels.

Instead, he just swallowed back bile and tried to evaluate the situation before speaking. Who knew what the Doctor had told them, how much he'd decided they should know. Maybe it was dangerous for them to know about him, or maybe it was just dangerous for him.

"Jessica saw him in the street almost two months ago," Trish continued. "She kind of…freaked out. Jumped him, took him back to her apartment, tied him up. She was terrified."

Jack closed his eyes. "I can understand that." God, what was he supposed to do?

"When he woke up, we found out that he didn't remember any of it, that he'd apparently been living on the street. When we first met him, he had…" another pause, "powers. Abilities, whatever. He could tell anybody to do anything, and they'd do it. No matter what. But those were gone when we found him. I don't know how."

Jack took a shaky breath. "Okay."

"I don't know how well you know him," Trish hedged, "but that's what I know. And I think you should know, too." Jack opened his eyes. Trish cast a significant glance at the Doctor, still nestled into the crook of Jack's neck, and bit her lip.

As if he could sense her judgement, the Doctor's breath hitched, and his entire body spasmed for the briefest of moments.

Jack remembered his task, and swore. His hand left the Doctor's wrist and came up to cup his face. He closed his eyes, tried to will up the memory from before, but he couldn't remember what it had been. He thought again of the peaceful tea, Tosh cracking a strained but relieved smile, stringing Christmas lights throughout the Hub with Ianto and laughing, emerging into cozy warmth after a long day spent in the cold.

He was angry, and confused and worried, but the Doctor still needed him. Jack could ask his questions later. For now, he pushed every last good second he had in his memory forward. The Doctor twitched again, his breathing going hard and labored as it gusted slightly across Jack's collarbone.

"Sorry, Doc," Jack murmured. "We're okay." He passed a thumb gently over the Time Lord's cheek, and thought of starlit nights and quiet music, and the whipping wind of a cold but peaceful shore. The advantage to being immortal, for all of the pain that he endured, was that he also had many good memories to fall back on. As many good memories as bad ones, perhaps, though the good were sometimes harder to recall. Jack thought, as hard as he could, and dwelled deliberately on each little moment from each little memory. He almost went limp with relief when the Doctor finally settled. "We're okay," he said again, because he felt like it needed to be said. He reopened his eyes, and sighed.

Trish pulled a hand through her hair, all of her anxiety painted clearly on her face. She really was beautiful, Jack allowed himself to think for a second, despite it all. Now wasn't the time to being flirting, though, as the Doctor had already warned him. It was a good mood-lightener, but he wasn't feeling up to it himself, really. And what a sad occasion that marked.

 _Happy thoughts,_ he reminded himself, forcefully. _Happy thoughts, Jack._ Walking outside on a warm summer night, a late night on the town with friends, sleepy movie commentary, friendly flirting, seeing familiar faces after ages apart, the gentle hum of the TARDIS lulling him to sleep.

He found that his eyes had fluttered closed again, without his permission, and he forced them open. Falling asleep himself wouldn't do any good - he wasn't exactly the kind of person to have sweet dreams, himself. But now that he was paying attention, he was absolutely exhausted, from head to toe. Travel by vortex manipulator tended to do that. The body didn't exactly like being thrown through the time vortex without a proper shuttle, as the Doctor _loved_ to point out to Jack whenever possible. And now that distractions were fewer, and Jack was sitting, curled up on a soft couch, with a cool, comfortable weight at his side…well, naturally he was getting a little heavy-eyed.

But he'd have to wait to sleep until he was in a less volatile situation, until someone else could keep an eye on the Doctor for him, until he could lie down and be left alone and not have to consciously monitor the thoughts and feelings he was projecting to others.

Jack attempted to move to a slightly less comfortable position, but the Doctor somehow had a hand twisted up in Jack's shirt, and prying it away would probably be unwise, or so Jack assumed. He sighed and relented, settled back down. He was stuck like this for now, it seemed. He refocused on Trish, and found her watching him gravely - not in a cruel or threatening way, just…a little bit dark, a little bit brooding. Sad or angry or something of that nature.

They sat like that for what felt like ages.

* * *

It was such a strange thing, Trish thought, to see Kilgrave so openly affectionate.

Or not affectionate, but trusting, caring, vulnerable in ways he hadn't been for the weeks Trish had known this new him.

Jack Harkness, despite his apparent resistance to the idea of sleep, reminiscent of Kilgrave's, seemed to have drifted off now. His head was tilted slightly back, his jaw slack, lying just a little bit against the top of Kilgrave's head. Kilgrave had his forehead in Harkness' neck, his body curled slightly toward the other man, one hand somehow wound in his shirt. Kilgrave's coat was slightly too large on him, his eyes were bagged, his face pale, but he still looked restful now. Weirdly relaxed, though in his position Trish would be stricken with terror.

She had to wonder how the two knew each other, how they could possibly be this comfortable.

For Jack to call him 'the Doctor,' his apparent self-given name, he would have to have met Kilgrave recently, after the man was brought back to life, or saved, or whatever. Whatever they had gone through together, it had obviously bonded them. Trish was tempted to call their relationship romantic, but so far it would be nothing more than an assumption, and Trish knew better than to follow those.

It had been a little over an hour since Jessica and Luke had locked themselves away in Trish's bedroom, and although the shouting had long since gone quiet, Trish couldn't help but be a little worried. Maybe they were still talking, or maybe they'd just decided to sit and stare at one another until one of them broke. Or maybe they'd accidentally killed each other. She itched to go check, but forced herself to stay put, and keep a close eye on their prisoners as she'd been told. Her gun glinted cold and promising where she could see it poking out of the purse at her side. Just looking at it made her clench her jaw.

Trish Walker wasn't weak. Hardly. She knew how to use a gun, what she had to do if it came down to her to protect herself, but her stomach still turned a little.

She watched her prisoners, and listened for some sign that Jessica and Luke were done arguing, and they could finally make some progress.

A small click sounded as the door unlocked, and Trish's head shot up to stare at it. The door swung open in an instant, and Jessica emerged. Her eyes were a little red, but she looked…okay. Okay as she could get, these days. She wasn't storming out of the room, which was a good sign. Luke followed a short distance behind her, still detectably angry, but ever so slightly more relaxed. Willing to do what needed to be done, Trish gathered with relief. Willing to put Jessica's secrets behind them for now, at the very least.

"Okay," Jessica said. Calm, collected, steady. "We need to get some answers, and we need them now."

Jack frowned in his sleep, and twitched, but otherwise didn't react. Kilgrave remained still and silent.

The look on Jessica's face as she paced forward to get a better look at the two men on the couch was not a happy one, and it only got worse as she took in their entanglement. She swallowed, took a calming breath.

"So they're obviously friends," she quipped.

Jack stirred again, without any more prompting, and a noticeable change in breathing was the only warning they had before his eyes suddenly shot open and he almost jumped off of the couch. Kilgrave was twisted into what was obviously not a comfortable position, as his eyebrows came together and he too started showing signs of waking.

"You let me fall asleep," Jack accused. As soon as he set eyes on Kilgrave's predicament, he tried to adjust the other man back to where he'd been, but it was obvious that it wasn't helping much. His gaze flickered back up to his audience, and he stared pointedly up at them. "Did you need something?"

"You promised answers," Jessica reminded him. She crossed her arms. Luke moved behind her, seamlessly transitioning to the role of her reinforcement rather than 'opponent.'

"I don't have too many of those," Jack replied, "as I think I told you earlier. I'm sorry," and he almost sounded sincere, "but I don't have a lot for you." He looked down at Kilgrave again. "You can ask the Doc, but…he's been out of it, for obvious reasons. Nothing's changed since you last asked."

"Wake him up," Luke commanded.

Jack sighed. His eyes stayed trained on Kilgrave. Trish detected a fair amount of regret there. A little bit of pain, too, and sorrow. Jack hesitated, but only briefly, before easing Kilgrave off of him, and gently shaking the man's shoulders. Within seconds, Kilgrave emitted something like an unhappy groan, and tried to twist away.

"Jack," he complained. "Stop, stop. Awake, stop."

Harkness very nearly smiled as he let Kilgrave go and leaned back. "These nice folks have a few questions for you," he said. Trish couldn't help but notice the care he took in sounding cheerful and unworried. "You feel up to it?"

"It doesn't matter how he feels," Jessica interjected. "This is more important than any of us. People could be dead."

"Hm," Kilgrave said. His eyes were still stubbornly closed. "Idea."

Jack's eyebrows shot up. "Already?"

"'S a play off an earlier idea," Kilgrave explained. The drugged slur and the accent muddled his words, so Trish had to fight a little to properly understand him. "I tried to get captured, you know," he said. "Backfired…a bit."

"Captured?" Jack repeated.

"You saw a kidnapping?" Jessica cut in.

"Yep," Kilgrave said, popping the 'p'. "I…what did I do? Ran, which was nice. 'S been a while since that's happened. But they wouldn't take me." He almost pouted, Trish noted incredulously. "Too picky. Not important. But they'd take Jack."

"You want me to get myself kidnapped?" Jack spluttered. "Really?"

"You're a fact," Kilgrave insisted, waving a limp hand. It nearly hit Jack in the face. "Jack the Fact."

Jack's expression instantly changed, going bitter and hard. But when he spoke, it was unbearably gentle. "Doctor."

"What a great relationship you two have," Jessica dryly remarked. "Nothing to show how much you care like offering the other one up for a kidnapping."

Jack sighed, ducked his head a little to bury it in his hands. "I'm not saying no," he ground out. "We can think it over. He's not wrong. I'm the best chance we have."

"What makes you the most qualified?" Luke countered.

Another sigh. "Are you honestly going to volunteer yourself for this, over a stranger who you don't like?" Jack raised his head again, eyed Luke with something like fury. "I'm trying to help here."

He had a point, Trish had to admit. She wasn't exactly crazy about the plan, as it stood now, but it seemed to be their best option for the moment. And it didn't involve anyone she cared about getting hurt.

"Sorry, Jack," Kilgrave loudly whispered, in a way that suggested that he thought he was being quiet. "I'm so sorry."

"We'll ride out this drug," Jack proposed, completely ignoring his friend, "and then we can talk more about this idea, okay? Give me time to think some more, come up with more ideas…People are getting kidnapped?"

Trish nodded, drawing his eye to her. "Kids," she added darkly.

His face fell. "Oh."

"Time is a factor," Jessica put in tightly.

"We'll ride this out," Jack said again. "Then we can bring it up again."

"If he was drugged by the kidnappers, then this could last a week," Jessica informed him, "maybe longer if we're unlucky."

"Get Claire," Luke suggested. "Your nurse friend."

Jessica closed her eyes, something pained fluttering across her face. "Fine," she bit out. "I'll call her. Maybe she's found something to help us out by now. He's having different symptoms anyway," she waved a hand dismissively in Kilgrave's direction, "maybe it'll wear off a little sooner."

But if they went with Malcolm's theory, then it could mean longer. If he'd still been on the drug when he'd been dosed again (unless it was something new), he could be affected for several weeks, maybe months like the first dose had done. Maybe these new and strange effects could be attributed to a double-dose…in which case who knew what they were in for?

Trish bit her lip, and watched him sit there, letting the conversation he should have been a part of floating around him, his attention apparently lost. His brow was furrowed, a frown crossing his lips. His eyes were still closed.

"Whatever you have to do," Jack agreed. He looked anything but young and handsome now. He just looked tired.

Trish could relate.

* * *

The Doctor had gone adrift, and it appeared that everyone was okay with him staying that way. He could feel Jack, but the man wouldn't touch him, was just sitting there beside him in silence. His Wrongness was the Doctor's only anchor, a pain that kept the him from going crazy but not much else. The universe, with all of its sights and sounds and feelings, had entirely enveloped him, and it was a confusing mess. He could pinpoint a few distinct things - that he was sitting down, that there were people milling around, that Jack was beside him and there was conversation - but it had all transformed into a wall of mostly meaningless information again.

He had nothing left to do but stay calm and endure it until he was able to focus again. Unhelpfully, not being able to discern any real information was a very anxiety-inducing experience. It reminded him of other times he'd been drugged - most had ended fine, and had no real terrible memories associated with them, but others were far less bearable. He kept thinking about the Valiant, and the Master's fondness for his own brand of drug-testing.

 _Don't think about that_ , he reminded himself. _Why do you keep thinking about that?_ It was partly because of Jack, he suspected. His distinct Wrongness brought with it many reminders. Not all of them were unpleasant, but many of them were. Normally, he was able to block it all out and put on a smile, but that ability had been stripped from him. And, as he'd predicted back at the start of this mess, once he started thinking about the Year that Never Was, it was exceedingly difficult to stop.

His hearts wouldn't stop pounding now, stricken with uncertainty. A noise that he should have recognized floated to his ears, but he couldn't for the life of him have given a name to it. People were moving, but he couldn't tell where. Jack moved, but he couldn't tell what exactly had changed. Harried voices, that he thought were behind him, loud and relentless.

Things were happening, people were moving, and talking, and he couldn't figure out what was going on, he was just there, alone, trapped.

A soft touch broke through the onslaught of information, but came with a rush of new things - anxiety, stress, frustration, images of a pale Jessica Jones, hurried clips of thought along the lines of _malnourished, no response to stimuli,_ flashes of worry about _work, friends, their lives_ -

The hand was ripped away, as quick as it had come. And Jack spoke, and the Doctor had to work to make out the words - "Not a good idea. Hey, Doc-" and more hands, but familiar ones, Jack's, pushing something that was supposed to be calm at him. "Deep breaths, calm down okay?" He was pulled into a soft, warm embrace, and it was only then that he realized that he'd been shaking. "Just focus on my voice."

He tried. It wasn't as easy as it sounded. But slowly, very slowly, Jack's gentle calm stole over him, like something of a blanket, and he settled. The universe stopped making quite as much noise. The Doctor could feel his own breathing now, and how it eventually slowed to something even and quiet. He could hear Jack's single human heart thudding steadily where he'd been laid on the man's chest.

"There," Jack breathed. "Thank God. What the hell happened?"

The Doctor was more than a little relieved himself. "Too loud," he explained, or half-explained, to Jack's chest. He let the Wrong keep him present - it was a persistent headache, but not an entirely unwelcome one.

"That can happen," a new voice piped up, soft and incredibly cautious. "Some drugs impair the brain's ability to properly process information. I've heard it can be unsettling."

"Yeah," Jack agreed with a sigh, "I'm not sure how much he's actually aware of right now."

The Doctor huffed loudly in response, maybe a little defensively. It lacked all of the outrage he wanted, since he was still lying half on top of Jack, eyes closed, and not moving.

Jack either didn't pick up on the message, or decided to ignore it for the moment. "We have to let Claire take a look at you, Doctor. She might be able to help."

"Claire," the Doctor muttered. "Oh. You're the nurse."

"Right," Claire said, smooth and calm despite the fear and concern the Doctor knew were coursing through her. "I'll be careful. I should be able to do everything from here, actually, so we shouldn't have to move you again. I just need you to do a couple quick things for me, alright? I need your eyes open, just for a little bit."

The Doctor thought that sounded like a lot of work, and now that he was lying down, the invitation of unconsciousness was especially compelling, making it even worse. But Jack was nudging him, and he'd already upset Jack enough for one day. So he blinked his eyes open, and pretended that the sudden influx of information wasn't driving him mad.

He didn't last very long with them open, as it completely shattered what little focus he had. There were again too many colors, shapes, movements, for him to churn through with any amount of accuracy. Jack helped, but even his persistent Wrongness couldn't correct all the loudness of the visible world, especially when paired with Claire's speech - though what she was saying, he didn't know - and plastic-sheathed hands on his face. He snapped his eyes closed again, and turned his head so that it dug into Jack's chest.

There was some kind of exclamation from underneath him - a complaint or a laugh or something in between - and a brief shuffling and changing of position, so that the Doctor could comfortably bury his face against Jack's shoulder. When coherent words came back to him, Claire was saying, "I don't think it's that he can't see, but just that when he tries there's too much information to sort through to get an actual picture."

Jack relaxed, almost imperceptibly. "He said something like that," he said. "Good to know it's got some medical backing."

"Right," Claire replied, in a way that suggested exhaustion and reluctance. "But listen - I know the drug is the primary concern here, because it's the most pressing issue, but if we want to take care of that more quickly we'll need to address some other areas as well."

A short, rather confused silence.

"He's thin," Claire elaborated. "Really thin. Not in a normal way. What I'm seeing is suggesting an extended period of time without real nutrition. That might also be why the drug hit so quickly, and maybe even why the effects are somewhat different than we've seen before."

"Shit," Jack whispered. "Oh, shit, I didn't even really think-" Suddenly, the Doctor was being jostled; Jack's hands on his shoulders, his face, moving his head away from the comfort of the shoulder, Jack's mind broadcasting horror that choked the Doctor's throat and twisted his stomach. "When was the last time you ate?" Jack demanded, his voice barely decipherable over the pounding of his heart in the Doctor's ears, the clench of fear in his chest. "Doctor," he repeated. "Doc, come on, this is important."

"You're loud," the Doctor whined, vainly trying to tug away, hearing all too clearly the tightness in his voice and the edge of pain there. "Stop, stop-"

It all cut off, in a breathless moment, Jack retreating from his face to simply lay a hand on his clothed, protected shoulder. "Sorry," Jack soothed, "I should have been more careful, I'm sorry. Did you hear me?"

The Doctor focused on the Wrong, willfully steadied his breathing and his thudding hearts. "Last night," he said. "Or…whenever that was. Before now."

"Okay." Jack took a measured breath, his grip tight on the Doctor's arm, but almost comfortingly so. Then, in a dangerously calm, clipped tone, continued, "Was this an actual meal that you planned? Or did you put off eating until you got too sick to function, freaked out when you realized that you'd made a mistake, and then shoved food in your mouth at the last minute?"

The Doctor knew what the answer Jack hoped for was, but he also knew the truth, and even in his current state could tell that Jack knew as well. The man had spent time getting to know him in the TARDIS, after all. In many of his weakest moments, too - Jack had seen many of the Doctor's bad decisions over the time they'd travelled together.

"Doctor," Jack prompted, a little softer. He rubbed a thumb against the Doctor's shoulder, and sighed. "Did you just forget, or was this on purpose?" he asked in a near whisper.

The Doctor felt his hearts stutter a little, and licked his lips. "Maybe…maybe a little on purpose," he rasped. "Not entirely, there were just. More important things were-and sometimes it's better, you know, if I don't-"

"Shut up," Jack whispered, his voice cracking. "Doctor, please, you can't say that."

"Trish," Claire began, deceptively collected, "I need you to make me a meal - small, simple, not greasy. As quick as you can."

Jack was lowering him down again, like he was made of china, which he resented very much. People were moving, he could hear Jessica and Claire exchanging information in clipped tones, could feel the strain of tension throughout the room. The Doctor felt hollow again, terribly so, and it was all the more amplified by his malfunctioning brain. Jack's arms around him were strong but careful, hot and human and protective. The Doctor remembered his frantic wishes for this, and for Donna at his side, her hand in his hair and her voice a soothing ramble. Or, if not Donna, some familiar face, some gentle presence.

Claire had two fingers pressed to his wrist. Jack said something to her, an assurance. He spoke some more, maybe to no one in particular. It was loud. Jessica was talking again, to someone else. There were cooking noises floating from Trish's kitchen. Claire was bustling, saying something to someone else across the room. Jack was speaking, quiet and indistinct, trying to be soothing but radiating emotions that were anything but. He pushed calm when he made physical contact, but the Doctor knew better. Jack ran a hand through his hair, so incredibly gently - the ghost of a touch, leaving behind it only the faintest of warmth, and underneath his calm exterior there was a pressing of raw pain and regret and care.

The Doctor could feel every last small injury on his body then, in sharp juxtaposition with Jack's soft contact, and his chest clenched without warning, his breath hitched and released in something of a ragged sigh.

"I'm here," Jack said. His voice came to the Doctor as more of a vibration than a sound. "I'll always be here."

Of course he would, the Doctor thought. Jack the Fact.

Claire's voice broke through Jack's protective shield, saying, "Okay, sit him up. Can he feed himself?"

"Give us a fork," Jack told her. "We'll work it out." He shifted, sitting up, and the Doctor had no choice but to come up with him. Limbs were rearranged, the world went sickly and spinny, but when it settled Jack was still there, his hand moved to the Doctor's shoulder again, the both of them propped against each other and the back of the couch. A barrage of new scents hit the Doctor as he tried to adjust to the change - eggs and ham and something sweet that might have been fruit, mixed with Jack's cologne and a dozen other distracting smells.

"'M not hungry," the Doctor said immediately, without even thinking. He truly didn't feel up to eating, though. His stomach ached, but not badly enough to cause problems. And he was a little dizzy now, which he didn't think would mix well with the food.

Jack's breath, which had been brushing coolly on the Doctor's face, changed. "Nope," he said. "Not true."

"I'm _not_ ," the Doctor protested, and his chest was going tight again-

"It's going to be fine," Jack said. Still calm, still quiet. "You don't have a choice right now, okay? Are you listening to me? This is serious, Doc. We can talk more about it later, but we have to deal with what we can right now. That means that you're going to take this fork," and he pressed something metal, warmed by human contact, into the Doctor's palm, "and you're going to eat Trish's eggs at the very least. You'll feel better."

The Doctor wrestled for a sarcastic comment about not being a child, but all he came away with was a petulant, "I can't see."

"Then I'll help you," Jack assured. He moved, there were a few soft clicks and movements, and then he was guiding the Doctor's hand. "Now put that in your mouth." He must have caught an inkling of the Doctor's brewing outrage, because he added, "I know this isn't exactly good for your ego. It's fine."

In the end, Jack had to help with that part, too, because the Doctor almost stabbed himself in the cheek, and apparently he wasn't allowed another chance, under the circumstances. All embarrassment was soon forgotten, however, as his stomach filled and drowsiness again set in. The tastes were overwhelming at first, but his brain eventually tuned them out into something distant and bearable.

"Good," Claire said. "Don't overeat, that'll make things worse. That's good for now." The fork was pried away, and she was feeling at his face again with her gloves. "The best thing now," she determined as she stepped away, "is sleep. He can eat some more when he wakes up." There were snapping noises the Doctor couldn't place, and the murmur of voices in the background. Jack had a hand on the back of his neck, pushing calm and quiet at him in waves. "You look like you could use some rest yourself," she added.

Jack huffed a little. "I'm fine."

Claire snorted. "Sure. Okay."

The Doctor felt he should say something. He had to help Jack, since Jack was helping him, right? That was the thing to do. "Jack," he scolded. Or tried to. It came out a little lackluster.

" _You_ ," Jack said tiredly, "are not about to lecture me about taking care of myself, are you?"

"Be a good role model," Claire suggested. "Lead by example."

"Jack doesn't _lead_ me," the Doctor complained, more than a little drowsily. It was no more than a mumble. "I don't get _led_."

"Course not," Jack sighed. That's when the Doctor lost the conversation, as they started speaking much more quietly. He suspected the low-pitched voices were specifically designed to make him fall asleep - it seemed to be just on the edge of his hearing, spoken in soft, gentle voices with little inflection, words indistinct and meaningless. And with Jack thinking very soft, gentle thoughts, the Doctor didn't stand much of a chance. He knew that, but it didn't stop him from giving in and drifting off in short order.

His sleep was black and dreamless.

* * *

 **Extra long chapter today! I thought about cutting it in half, but I figured it'd be better to have two-ish chapters of H/C, one being slightly longer, than three lol. It's coming a few hours later than usual, but it's here!**

 **I decided to post this, after a bit of editing, because I decided that the events of the chapter were important enough, and I couldn't cut or change things too much without sacrificing those important bits. Let me know what you think! :)**

 **Also, I can't believe we have less than 10 chapters left to go! It's so exciting. I've loved working on this so much, and I can't wait for you guys to read it.**

 **I hope that anyone who had a holiday this past weekend/week had a good one! As always, thanks for reading! :)**


	15. Chapter 15

**Chapter 15**

"So you're a nurse?" Jack murmured to Claire. "How long have you been doing that?"

"A while," Claire replied in the same tone of voice, a tired smile flickering across her face. She glanced to the Doctor, who had gone still but wasn't quite asleep. "What about you, what do you do?"

Jack would have smirked if he had the energy for it. "It's kind of a long story," he said. He cycled through some excuses in his head before deciding, "I've been through lots of jobs, but right now I'm working for an investigative company."

Claire had just opened her mouth to reply when Jack felt the Doctor go slack against him. He allowed his eyes to fall shut for a moment, sighing with relief.

He couldn't believe he'd missed the malnutrition. He'd been able to tell that the Doctor was skinnier than he remembered, but he'd pushed it out of his mind in favor of other, more pressing matters. Thought maybe he'd been misremembering - he hadn't seen this Doctor in a long time.

Jessica, Trish, and Luke had gathered in the kitchen, close enough to keep an eye on things, but far enough away to give Claire and her patient space.

"Is he asleep?" Claire whispered.

Jack nodded, once, gently enough to avoid any jostling. He could feel his body trying to betray him, threatening to relax as well, but he steeled himself, determined to stay awake this time.

Claire sat heavily in one of the armchairs. Finally, she stripped off her gloves, tossing them onto the coffee table and releasing something of a sigh. "You said his heartrate was normal for him, but I have to confess that it's not reassuring to me."

Jack winced. Luckily, she hadn't been looking at him, and didn't appear to catch the movement. "He was freaking out a little," Jack hedged. "And I know the drug is raising his heartrate by a fair bit." Her eyes flickered doubtfully between them. "He's okay," Jack insisted. He thought about letting it go, about confessing everything.

But he didn't feel right about it. Not without the Doctor's cooperation.

Claire shook her head. "Fine," she said, obviously bitter, but maybe a bit relieved, too. Jack imagined she didn't like worrying about the Doctor, not if she thought he was someone else. Someone evil. And since his pulse wasn't quite fast enough to warrant an overwhelming level of concern, he figured she was inclined to let it slide, at least for the moment.

"Does he do this often?" she asked, after a long moment.

Jack stifled a bitter laugh. "No," he replied. He was too "wrong" for the Doctor to get too close to most of the time. They barely even made much physical contact, the few times that they did see each other, except when the Doctor was in an especially good state of mind. Which was much less frequent than the man himself was ever likely to admit. Well, and apparently when he was in an especially bad state, too. When he couldn't get comfort from anywhere else, there was Jack.

They were friends. Jack was fairly sure of that. It was an odd relationship, but they were. They just had to make certain accommodations because of their strange predicament. And sure, it stung, but Jack was an adult. He could deal with it.

"It's an event for him to even touch me most of the time," he admitted. It came out with much less humor than he'd intended, falling flat and a little sad. Claire's expression changed ever so slightly, despite her professional facade.

"I meant about the eating," she clarified.

Jack managed a sheepish smile that quickly soured into something painful. He glanced down at the Doctor, thin and bony and pale. He thought back to the early days, in the TARDIS with Rose, back when he could die. There had been several times, early on, that he'd walked in on Rose practically forcing the Doctor to eat. Those times usually came after particularly rough journeys. Though once it seemed to come out of nowhere, at the time seeming to be for no reason. Rose had called it a "bad day," something Jack had become acquainted with in later years. He'd only had to deal with one himself twice; once when Rose was indisposed (sick with an especially bad bout of the flu) and the Doctor was feeling guilty, and then again right after the Year that Never Was.

And then now, although this time was slightly different than the others.

As for the eating, he occasionally had to convince the Doctor to eat. And by occasionally, well...almost every time they saw one another. Usually just once. Never if he was lucky. And to be fair, the Doctor had different needs than humans - he really only required a good meal every few days. But he had a tendency to get a little carried away.

"I don't think it's usually on purpose," Jack eventually revealed. "But he does tend to...get distracted." Claire frowned. "Or push himself a little too hard. It's not…" he trailed off, tried to gather his thoughts and keep them gentle and quiet at the same time. There wasn't too much he could reveal about the Doctor without having to jump into the 'alien' part of it all, which the Doctor clearly hadn't been comfortable enough to share just yet. "He has issues with guilt," Jack settled on saying. "I've never gotten the details from him, but when he does do this on purpose, it's supposed to be some kind of punishment, I think. Or he feels like he doesn't need it. Or shouldn't need it. And then, you know, he has some...control issues."

Claire leaned back in the chair without saying a word, although she pursed her lips. Jack just watched her, and tried to ignore how his arm was falling asleep underneath the Doctor's dead weight.

"Did anyone tell you who he really is?" Claire finally asked.

 _I could ask the same of you_ , Jack thought bitterly. "Yeah," he replied instead. "Kilgrave. I heard the story." It still made his stomach flip, but he knew better than to believe that the Doctor could be that man. Whether the Doctor thought he was was another story, but they couldn't exactly discuss that at the moment.

"So he has reason to feel guilty," Claire concluded.

Jack thought about where this Doctor probably was in his timeline - this was after Donna, he was pretty sure, shortly before his regeneration. There were other things he had to feel guilty about. More than anyone but the Doctor probably knew.

"Yeah," Jack rasped.

Claire closed her eyes for a moment. "I'm reluctant to say that he shouldn't feel guilty," she said, "but this obviously isn't a healthy coping mechanism." She opened her eyes again, and pinned Jack with a bitter, frustrated gaze. "This memory loss thing has put us all in a tough position," she sighed.

"I know," Jack said. "I wouldn't want to be nice to a friend's attacker, either, even if he didn't remember doing it."

Claire went quiet, but Jack could tell that she had more to say. He simply waited, until she finally gave in and said, "We have a working theory about him, if you want to hear it. It sounds like you met him shortly after his memory was wiped, or he was revived, or whatever happened. Maybe you can confirm or deny some things for us."

Jack closed his eyes. The last thing he wanted to do was try and make up a story about how he'd met the Doctor, and confirm any of the incorrect assumptions they'd made - but it seemed he didn't have much choice. The way they'd been acting, he couldn't exactly pretend he'd met the Doctor very recently. "Okay," he gave in, although he tried to sound as cooperative as possible. "Whatever I can do to help."

Claire took a deep breath. "Jessica killed him the last time she saw him," she began. "Or, I guess it's safe to assume that she just thought she killed him. It's pretty likely to me that she just paralyzed him. Whatever happened, it's obvious that someone got to him, fixed him up, and wiped his memory. We don't know why, but we have several working theories. They wanted to use his abilities to their own benefit, or maybe they were just testing drugs. We're pretty sure that it was the kidnappers we're seeing now that did it, since they're also using a memory-loss agent on the friends of their victims."

Jack nodded. "Go on."

"The drug, whatever it is, was probably just in its testing stages," Claire continued. "Instead of just taking away details of the kidnapping, or any concern for the victim, it took all of his memories. To cope, I think that his brain constructed an alternate identity for him. I've heard of it happening before. He was set loose once the kidnappers were done, and left to his own devices." She pinned him with that heavy gaze again. "And then, I guess, he met you. We think it's possible that memories might be coming back - the people that are drugged now tend to have the details and their emotions about it restored to them within a week or so. That could, in part, be why he's acting so erratically. As the memories come back to this new personality, he has to deal with his emotions about it."

Jack thought for a moment about how he could possibly respond without it being too obviously a lie. "I don't know anything about the memory loss, but he was definitely more stable when I met him." Partially true. The Doctor he'd met had had Rose. Fresh from the Time War, maybe, but at least there was someone there with him. This Doctor was alone, with several more years of trauma piled on top of everything he'd already accumulated.

"Has he said anything to you?" Claire prodded. "About remembering anything?"

"No," Jack sighed, "nothing at all." He offered a wry smile. "I'm sorry. I wish I had some news for you, but I don't."

Claire nodded, short and sharp. "Let me know if he does," she said. "It sounded like Trish had gotten something like an admission out of him, but that's all the evidence we have. The sooner we know more, the sooner we can address it. If he's really going back to being Kilgrave, we need to know immediately."

Jack could only imagine the terror they'd feel if that were the case. He wished he could ease their minds, explain to them why it was pointless. "I will," he promised.

* * *

Claire stayed in the living room with Kilgrave and the man who'd called himself Jack Harkness, while Jessica, Luke, and Trish discussed something in low voices in the kitchen. Claire only caught bits and pieces, but she pieced together that it was about Kilgrave - what he'd done and why, and what they were supposed to do now.

Luke said something, bitter and loud enough that a couple of his words were audible. Jessica responded, harsh and angry. Still not loudly enough to be heard.

Claire turned her attention back to Jack, but he too appeared to be listening intently to the nearby conversation, ignoring her entirely.

Or not listening, she corrected herself as he saw his eyes flutter shut, and then open again, brow furrowing in concentration, but trying to stay awake.

She sat and watched as he quickly lost the battle. First, his eyes shut and stayed shut. And then the wrinkles of strain on his face disappeared. And then he went entirely limp, one arm falling off the couch to dangle just over the floor. Kilgrave shifted slightly in his sleep, but didn't wake up.

It brought some mixed feelings, watching them. As Jack himself had said - it was difficult to be friendly with someone who had hurt a friend. Even if Kilgrave wasn't really Kilgrave at the moment, he had still done what he'd done.

The nurse in her wanted to be sympathetic, careful. But the part of her that was Jessica's friend told her to turn away. She'd done her job, essentially. No one was going to die. The most important thing had been addressed. Her patient was fed and asleep, and for the moment there was nothing for her to do.

With a sigh, Claire leaned an elbow on the arm of the chair and propped her head in a hand. The voices in the kitchen petered to a halt after a few minutes of quiet bickering.

Trish emerged first, a strained look on her face like she was trying not to show any emotion at all. Her eyes found Claire first, but quickly flickered to Jack and Kilgrave before coming back. "Everything okay?" she asked.

Claire sat up, leaned forward, with her elbows rested on her thighs and her hands clasped. "For now, we're fine," she replied. "Kilgrave needs sleep. When he wakes up we're going to have to make him eat again. We'll probably want some weight-gain shakes, it'll make our lives easier."

Trish looked momentarily to the floor, in something like shame. "We didn't notice," she confessed after a moment. Jessica and Luke were still talking in the kitchen; Claire could hear their quiet voices. "We were pretty wrapped up in the case," Trish continued.

"He wasn't your first priority," Claire interrupted, before the other woman could make any more excuses. "Trish, I understand." Trish glanced up at her finally, but the shame was still there. "If you think it's easy for me to sit here and take care of Jessica's rapist, you're crazy." Claire took a deep breath to keep herself from speaking too harshly. She thought of the too-fast pulse, and felt a flash of guilt for her relief in ignoring it, but forced herself on.

"Still," she continued. "You can't let this fall to the wayside again. I've been talking to Jack, and what I'm hearing is that this will probably happen again."

Trish's face fell even more, although that hardly seemed possible. "Okay," she said. She visibly straightened, her expression hardening. "I'll keep an eye out."

Claire momentarily debated over whether or not she was actually going to say it, but finally settled on, yes, of course she was. "I'll stay," she sighed. Trish blinked. "I have tomorrow off," Claire went on, against her better judgement. "I can help for the next 24 hours. We can make a lot of progress in that time. But after that, you're on your own."

Trish almost smiled. Almost. "Thank you," she said. "You don't know how much we appreciate you."

That ignited a little ember of warmth in Claire's heart, and she couldn't quite hold back the tiniest of smiles. "Just doing my job," she said back, although they both knew that wasn't entirely true.

At last, Jessica and Luke decided to join the rest of them. Their hands drifted close to each other, but didn't touch. The relationship wasn't quite mended, then. Though Claire supposed that there was a lot of work to do. She would have been more surprised if they'd gone straight back to how they'd been.

"So what's the verdict?" Jessica prompted, in a voice just low enough to be considered courteous.

"According to Jack, in the time these two have known each other, this has happened several times before," Claire divulged. "Since that can't be more than a few months, it's more than just an occasional problem."

"So when he was on the streets, it wasn't necessarily that he didn't have access to food than that he didn't eat it," Jessica deduced. Her voice darkened as she continued to speak. "Great. He's still crazy, memories or no."

Luke's lips thinned. "I understand why everyone's worried," he said testily, "but I think we have bigger problems on hand, don't you?"

"We have the time to deal with this first," Claire said, tossing a warning look his way. "Unless any of you want to get yourselves kidnapped, we're going on Jack's schedule. Which means at least another couple of days." She glanced at Jack and Kilgrave, still unmoving on the couch. "And according to Mr. Harkness here, this kind of thing is directly related to guilt, and possibly some control issues. Which lends some more weight to the 'remembering' theory."

Jessica snorted. She trudged over to the armchair beside Claire's and collapsed into it. "He has plenty to feel guilty about," she muttered. "And we know Kilgrave had an abundance of _control issues._ "

"I'm not arguing against that," Claire said. "Look, Jessica, I'm not a therapist. I'm not saying we talk to him about his feelings. We just have to make sure he eats so he doesn't accidentally kill himself." Jessica stared into space, but Claire could tell she was listening. "I'm not thrilled about helping him, either, but this is my job. And he may be Kilgrave physically, but his memory of those events is gone. Or, most of them. It doesn't excuse them, but I'm not sure that punishing him for it is working out in our favor."

She watched and waited. Jessica just nodded, once, short and stiff and angry. But the message had been sent. Claire sighed and let herself lean back in the chair.

Now they just had to make it through the night.

* * *

His hearts pounded. He didn't know where he was going, or why he was running. He just knew that his legs ached and his chest screamed, and every part of him protested, but he couldn't stop. There was so much ground left to cover, and it was quickly getting dark.

The darkness fell just at his heels, threatening to lap him up. There were lights up ahead, but they were blurry and seemed to be getting farther and farther away.

Without warning, there was another person there, just behind him. Maybe there had been all along and he just hadn't noticed, too caught up in his race. They wrapped their arms around his chest and forced him to stop or else fall over. He caught the scent of alcohol and fear and knew instantly that it was Jessica.

The dark overcame him, and Jessica was screaming in his ear, forcing a weapon into his hand - or, not a weapon, but a button. An all-too-familiar button. She begged him not to press it at the same time that she closed his hands around it. She was calling him _Kilgrave,_ and her hands were hot, burning his skin where she touched it.

He lost all sight of everything as the darkness strengthened. Jessica kept pushing the button at him, and he kept pushing it back. He could hardly hear her anymore through the beating of his hearts. "Stop," he said, and she fell to the ground, limp, like she'd been shut off, and he knew it was his fault. She'd only done it because of him.

But he still held the button in his hands. He couldn't let go of it. He couldn't stop his hand from moving and covering it, pushing down.

Gallifrey was-

"Doctor," someone whispered, and he found himself on a couch, surrounded by human heat, damp with sweat.

He felt for his body, pinpointing exactly where everything was, and reached out with a clumsy hand to tap at the body next to him. "Jack," he mumbled back. "It's late."

"Our guard left to make food," Jack whispered, although it was more of a breath than anything else. Hardly audible. The Doctor had to strain to listen. "We have to talk."

"Talk," the Doctor repeated. He had to admit he was kind of confused about what, exactly, was happening.

"Shh, quieter. Yes, talk." Jack pulled back slightly. "You're sweaty."

"'S hot."

Jack sat up, and the Doctor felt the blanket that had been wound unpleasantly around his legs peeled away. The rush of cool air that followed had him nearly drifting off again, but Jack returned and shook him back to awareness. Or, as near to awareness as he could get. "Can you tell me, from your perspective, what's happening with this kidnapping stuff?"

"Hm." He thought back, as much as he could, digging up memories that wanted to stay buried. That was interesting. They had tried to push themselves to the back of his mind - there, but unobtrusive enough that they didn't draw much attention. If he had been a human, he certainly wouldn't have been very concerned about what he'd seen. He wouldn't even have thought much about it, or thought to dig up those memories at all. That alone gave him some clues as to who was responsible - there weren't too many species in the universe with that kind of mastery over drugs and the mind. "Blue, robes with hoods. Sounds like experiments."

Jack seemed to think it over, going oddly silent. "Any ideas as to why?" he breathed not long after.

"Easy prey," the Doctor whispered.

Jack barely covered up a snort. "Of course." He went quiet again, and the Doctor relaxed into a floaty doze, before it occurred to him that he was feeling much better.

"Jack," he said, poking the immortal in the ribs. Jack winced away, but by the huff of amusement he released the Doctor knew he didn't mind. "I feel better."

Jack perked up immediately, sitting up a little again. "How much better?"

"Bit less...wibbly," the Doctor described, gesturing vaguely. "But still tangled."

Jack huffed a faint laugh. "So this is a little less overwhelming," he deduced. The Doctor hummed an affirmative, feeling it buzz in his throat, and Jack laughed again. It rumbled through his body, warm and cheerful. Despite his Wrongness, the Doctor inched closer. "Everything okay?" Jack asked, a smile evident in his voice.

"Tired."

"At least you're admitting to it now," Jack said wryly. "But you're going to eat something before you go back to bed." He moved slowly, almost torturously slow, as he grabbed one of the Doctor's hands. The Doctor could feel the soft murmur of his thoughts, but couldn't entirely discern what they were. "It feels like your walls are coming back up," Jack said. "That's good. Makes things easier." He paused, then lowered his voice again, suddenly, dropping back into that near-silent whisper. "Can you tell me what happened with the glass, Doctor? Please?"

Frustration wound around the Doctor's chest, and he sighed. "I got angry," he whispered. "I keep trying to help, but it doesn't work. I make it worse. I don't know how to stop it, it's always an accident. How do I stop it?" He felt like he was babbling, and was immediately embarrassed.

Jack sighed and pulled him close, so that the Doctor's ear was on his chest. His heart thumped reassuringly away, steady despite it all. "You don't usually throw things," he pointed out. It was a deflection, and the Doctor could tell. But he let it slide, without the energy to pry Jack for some kind of explanation.

"I wasn't thinking straight," the Doctor said. "I didn't feel in control, I tried to get some of it back. I was angry."

"Not eating will do that," Jack pointed out.

Fair point. Despite the slightest twinge that stung at him in response, the Doctor hummed an agreement. "Tired," he said again.

"If you fall asleep I'll be so mad at you," Jack said, though he sounded the slightest bit amused despite his words. "It sounds like the food's almost ready. Can you hang on for five more minutes?"

"Sounds like a long time," the Doctor muttered. The world was going liquid around him, Jack's arms softening to nothing, the couch and the room and the apartment fading to gray. He tried to grasp at things, fingers tightening in Jack's shirt, twitching his feet to try and maintain awareness, but it was only delaying the inevitable.

It felt like not a second later that Jack was jostling him again, saying, "food's ready, come on, back up."

He heard Claire's voice, as she apparently emerged from the kitchen. "I have a weight-gain shake and some more eggs for you."

"He says he's feeling better," Jack reported. A few things were set on the coffee table with quiet _clinks_.

"Really?" Claire said. A zipper. "Do you think he's coming down now, then?"

The Doctor frowned. "I'm awake," he complained, and Jack huffed a laugh.

"Yeah, seems like it," Jack verified. "He's a little less confused, in general."

"I'm right here," the Doctor reminded them, quietly, into Jack's shirt. "Up. Listening." Jack laughed again. The Doctor listened to his heart rate jump, and almost smiled. It didn't seem that he often made Jack happy. He could help at that, maybe, if nothing else.

"Sorry," Claire said, obligingly. "In my defense, it's been hard to tell when you've actually been paying attention. But the fact that you spoke up is a good sign. You're aware enough to not like people ignoring you, which I don't think you were worried about before."

Despite how hopeful she sounded, the Doctor still needed a bit of a lift from Jack to properly sit up, and even when that was done he was feeling a bit spinny. It wasn't entirely unpleasant, but incredibly disorienting. Jack curled the Doctor's hands around a large plastic cup and ordered him to drink.

Which he did, albeit haltingly. It was supposed to be chocolate, he could tell that much, but it was grainy and unpleasant, and he only made his way through about half of it before he had to take a break.

"I know, they aren't the most fun," Claire said. The Doctor was almost tempted to say she sounded sympathetic, but the necessary emotion wasn't quite there.

He finished the shake, although it took an unexpected amount of concentration to manage, and immediately found himself undergoing another quick checkup by Claire.

"Jack said your pulse is normally kind of fast," she was saying doubtfully as she took it. She pulled away, while the Doctor tried to figure out how to respond. "I want to say that you might have a heart condition, but with the drugs and stress I don't think we can come to a conclusion on that." She dug through her back while he attempted a weak shrug, and then pried his left eye open to shine a light in it, blinding him. "They're a little more focused," she noted. "You might want to try opening them."

He sighed, but Jack was poking him encouragingly in the shoulder, and he knew it would make Claire feel better if she knew, so he reluctantly cracked his eyes open.

And he could see.

It was weird sight, distorted and somehow far away, but it was sight. Real, working sight. Claire actually smiled a little when he met her eyes. She looked tired, ready to drop dead asleep at any moment. He wondered how none of that had shown in her voice. It could be easy to forget how much you relied on the ability to see to relate to other beings.

"That's better," she said. "Are you still feeling okay?"

He couldn't think of how to explain it to her, so he just mumbled, "vision is weird," hoping to get his point across.

"Weird how?" Jack asked. "Are things still hard to focus on?"

"No, as a concept," the Doctor attempted to explain. He held up a hand, attempting to demonstrate, but the moment he had it in the air he forgot the gesture he'd been thinking of. "Wait."

Jack actually laughed, a real laugh. "It's been a long time since I've seen you intoxicated," he chuckled. "I forgot how entertaining it was."

"I have been drugged," the Doctor said, dropping his suddenly heavy hand into his lap, "and you're laughing at me." Jack's smile, when the Doctor turned to look at him, was wide and warm and real.

"Now that you're a little less out-of-your-mind high, I think I'm allowed," Jack defended, still grinning. "We can say it's just relief, if you want. I'm glad you're a little more coherent."

The Doctor huffed, although the words curled a pleasant warmth in his chest. Across from him, he thought he caught Claire hiding an amused smile of her own.

"I get a lot of drugged-up clients," she said, "it's not anything I haven't seen before."

"But you have to admit it's funny," Jack insisted. "When it's not serious, I think it's acceptable to laugh."

"Not when you're a professional," Claire argued. But she looked amused nonetheless. The Doctor realized it wasn't really a look he'd ever seen on her face.

"You should sleep," he decided. She gave him a confused look, her eyebrows coming together. Since she didn't seem to be getting the message, he grabbed the blanket that Jack had put on the arm of the couch and tossed it vaguely in her direction.

"I'm guarding you," she said. She let the blanket lie where it had fallen on the floor. "I can't sleep."

"I'm not going to run," the Doctor told her. "I can't move. And humans need sleep. I know, I've seen it. Always wanting to go back to bed, even-"

"Okay," Jack interjected, settling a warning hand on the Doctor's shoulder. "I think this is a roundabout way of telling us that _you_ want to go back to bed."

Irritation flooded him - a diluted, sleepy irritation, but irritation nonetheless - and he ducked dizzily away from Jack's hand and scowled. Or, he was pretty sure that he scowled. His face felt like not his. "If I wanted to go to bed, I would say that I wanted to go to bed."

Jack lifted his hands in surrender. "Okay, sorry," he said. "Grouchy."

"That's a good indicator of tiredness," Claire pointed out. When he turned his maybe-scowl on her, she relented. "Look, I only have an hour left to stay up before it's Luke's turn. I can wait that long."

"I'm trying to help," the Doctor snapped. Why didn't anybody believe him? He could do everything in his power to make things easier, to do his part, to take a little pressure off of the shoulders of these humans but they couldn't bear to look at him with anything other than suspicion. He didn't begrudge them their caution - it made sense, he knew, and he couldn't expect them to just believe him. But when he hurt them, it wasn't on purpose.

But it didn't need to be on purpose. He never meant to hurt his companions. Everything that had happened to them had been (for the most part) entirely accidental, although often it had been triggered by some action of his or theirs, indirectly. But they had still been hurt, one way or another. Whatever he intended, he still hurt them. Whether it was just by mistake, or as an aftershock of trying to fix the mistake, or-

"Doctor," Jack urged, "breathe." And he remembered that he was supposed to do that, and sucked in a deep breath that almost pained him, and released it in a noisy sigh that left him dizzy. Or, dizzier.

He blinked spots out of his vision, tried to clear his thoughts. Jack rubbed his back with one hand. Claire had vanished.

"I keep hurting them," he said to Jack in a whisper. "I don't want to, but I know I am."

Jack paused. "What do you mean?"

"I want to help, but I ruin it instead," the Doctor attempted to explain. The words came out jumbled and nonsensical, and not quite right, but he didn't know where to begin fixing them. "And then I want to fix it, and it gets worse."

Apparently Jack understood what he was trying to communicate, as he paused in dark contemplation for a moment. "I don't know that you've really hurt them," he eventually decided. "If you have, it wasn't your intent, and it wasn't your fault."

"Did Kilgrave mean to hurt people?" the Doctor whispered. "Or was it all an accident? A side effect of who he was?"

Jack froze. His hand moved from the Doctor's back to his shoulder, gripping it tightly. The Doctor couldn't meet his eyes, but he imagined that they had gone narrow with intensity. "You aren't Kilgrave," Jack hissed. "Doctor, look at me."

"I can't. I think I am, Jack. Kilgrave, I mean. Not on purpose, but I think I am."

Jack lowered his voice. "Listen to me. As far as I can tell, Kilgrave was human. Okay?"

"I can be human, too, if I try," the Doctor countered at the same volume. He stared at his bare feet on the floor and thought of John Smith, and Martha Jones, and the Master, and felt a hearts-stopping chill creep up his spine.

"But that's not you, then, is it?" Jack said. "That's a completely different person."

"John Smith is still in me, somewhere," the Doctor explained. It was important that Jack understand. "He is me. I know he's here, I knew who he was and he knew me." That wasn't what he'd meant to say, but he didn't have time to reword it. The words were already out, and Jack was already responding to them.

"The Master became a completely different person, didn't he?" Jack pressed. "The Master and Professor Yana were two entirely different people. You didn't even have any idea until he transformed back, right?"

"He was like that before," the Doctor insisted. "He wasn't always insane, Jack, not like that. He had...Professor Yana was in him, always. In another life, he could have been Yana all along." He lifted hands as heavy as weights, attempting to demonstrate, but Jack pushed his hands back down and squeezed them.

"You aren't Kilgrave," Jack growled. "You aren't. You couldn't do that."

"I make people do things, Jack," the Doctor said. "You know that. Not on purpose, but I do. They want to impress me, they-"

"You aren't seriously quoting _Davros,_ are you?" Jack hissed. "Are you kidding me?"

"He was right," the Doctor said, "I know he was right. And he knew. That's why he said it." When Jack didn't immediately jump in again, he continued. "I can't handle feeling helpless, Jack. I get the impression that Kilgrave couldn't, either. And he was helpless a lot as a child. Jessica showed me a video. I think he needed control, and it turned him into a monster. I don't want-I don't-" he forced himself to stop, breathe. "I could have made myself younger, found some parents, set up a whole new life. Become Kilgrave. Not on purpose, but I could turn into him. It's possible, Jack. People have done it before." Jack remained silent. "He looks like this me, Jack," the Doctor finished in nothing more than a breath. He stole his hands back from Jack, and Jack didn't fight him. "He does. Exactly so."

Footsteps sounded as Claire emerged back into the living room. "Everything okay in here?" she asked, caution coloring her voice. It should have been harmless, normal. But it seemed so much darker, now, unbearably so.

He was tired of wariness. He was tired of worrying that it was entirely warranted.

"I'm not Kilgrave yet, but I think I will be," he whispered, the words coming unbidden to his lips, tasting like fire and bile.

He watched Claire stop, going sheet white, and knew it would be burned into his memory forever.

"You really are remembering," she whispered.

"I didn't say that-" he tried to amend, but she had already fled the room, headed down the hall to the bedrooms.

"Jesus, Doctor," Jack sighed.

"I didn't say that," the Doctor whispered. "I didn't." He cursed drugs and alien kidnappers and anything else he could think of, in every language he knew.

"What is she supposed to think?" Jack demanded. "Look at me." The Doctor obeyed with a frustrated huff. Jack glared, but without real malice. Just concern, and uncertainty, and exasperation. An all-too-normal expression to see on his face. "Why didn't you tell them who you are?"

"Didn't think they'd take it well," the Doctor explained. "Jessica locked me in a closet, you know. Wasn't exactly sure telling them I was an alien would improve matters." He caught the look on Jack's face, and his stomach did a curious rolling. "Jack, please don't. It makes things too complicated."

Jack shook his head. "I think it makes things a helluva lot easier on us if we tell them," he said. "This could all be over right now. Tell them you have two hearts, and they'll realize you and Kilgrave couldn't possibly be the same person. Claire is already suspicious."

"Or maybe it just confirms it," the Doctor whispered, and he watched Jack's face fall.

"Oh," Jack said. Like the entire problem had fallen cleanly into place in front of him. "I see."

Footsteps thundered in their direction, and they sounded much louder than they probably actually were to the Doctor's ears. He closed his eyes and listened, imagining he could feel the movements through the floor, through the couch. Jack tucked a blanket back around him, aggressively but not unkindly.

Before the footsteps reached them, Jack pressed a kiss to the Doctor's temple, pushed a suggestion, and though the Doctor could have easily fought against it, he didn't bother, and fell immediately into a black sleep.

* * *

Trish felt as if the world was crashing down around her. She thought maybe, after Claire had burst into their room and announced like a bad prophecy that Kilgrave was, in fact, remembering, that it would be more dramatic once they'd all rushed in a panic to the living room.

But Jack and Kilgrave were still just sitting there. Jack had Kilgrave's head pressed to his chest, and was rocking him gently. Kilgrave's eyes were closed. He didn't react as they all burst into the room, despite the racket they were making. Jack looked up at them, eyes dark and sad and unbearably frustrated.

"You said he wasn't remembering," Trish blurted. It was the first thought that came to her head.

Jack just shook his head. "I don't think he is," he replied, even-toned despite the emotion on his face.

"He said, and I quote, ' _I'm not Kilgrave yet, but I think I will be_ ,'" Claire snapped. Trish felt Jessica go stiff beside her, and she impulsively reached out a hand to grip Jessica's shoulder. Luke stood behind them, silent but radiating a concealed rage.

Jack shook his head again. "He's worried," he explained, softly, "that he is Kilgrave."

"He is," Jessica said, with a voice like ice.

"Imagine waking up one day and being told that you were, for example, a serial killer," Jack began. It would have been almost conversational, if not for the downturn of his mouth and the glint in his eye. "You don't remember it, not even a little, and it doesn't sound like something you would do. But everyone around you insists that you are, and shuts you away to keep an eye on you. So you start to wonder - am I that person? It doesn't sound like me. But everyone is convinced that I did those things, and hurt people, and there's a lot of evidence to suggest that it's true. Wouldn't that drive you a little crazy? I won't deny he already had some control problems. But wouldn't anyone feel like they needed to take some back?"

A flare of anger rushed through Trish, like a spark to gasoline. "This is not our fault," she grit out, stabbing a finger in Jack's direction. "Kilgrave ripped us apart, whether he remembers it or not. You said you understood why we were cautious. Then how can you blame us?"

"I don't," Jack snapped back. "This isn't a black-and-white issue. It's nothing but shades of gray. I know that, and I know you all know that. Pretending that we aren't all aware doesn't help anyone." Gently, he laid Kilgrave aside, setting his friend's head on the arm of the couch. Kilgrave, apparently dead to the world, didn't seem to notice the change. Jack dropped his head into his hands. "I'm just saying," his voice was muffled as he spoke, "that there is a clear reason, now, for why he's acting the way he is."

"So it's definitely guilt-related," Claire confirmed. "Like you were saying earlier."

Jack snorted. "Yes. Very, very much yes."

"You don't think he's remembering," Trish said, doubtfully. "Despite all the evidence."

Jack sighed. "No, I don't."

"Now is not the time for wishful thinking," Luke stonily pointed out. "Just because you don't want to believe it doesn't mean it isn't true."

Jack looked up, with an unexpected strain on his face. "I know. It's not…" he sighed again. "I wouldn't lie to you. You don't trust me, and that's to be expected. I would do the same thing in your position. But I don't want you to be hurt. If I thought there was a serious risk, I would let you know."

"You can't expect us to just believe you," Jessica said. "We're not stupid."

"And I'm not, either," Jack retorted. "It would be nice if you did, but obviously it doesn't make sense, tactically. I get it."

And the thing was, he did, genuinely, seem to understand. Trish detected clear frustration on his face, but no real anger, no malice. The only darkness in his face was that of exhaustion and a well-disguised kind of sorrow.

"We can keep an eye on him," Claire decided. "Run some more tests when he wakes up. Make sure his powers still aren't working, that kind of thing."

Relieved that someone had taken the reigns, Trish nodded her agreement.

"He's coming down, I think," Jack offered. "We should be able to move on with our plan tomorrow afternoon."

"Already?" Jessica puzzled. Jack just shrugged.

"It's a good thing, isn't it?" he said.

"If this new dose is wearing off already," Trish began, slowly, as the thought occurred to her, "what does that say about the first one?" She wondered if he'd been acting for weeks, playing a character, exploring their weaknesses...

Jack frowned, sighed. "I don't know. I don't think he's remembering. What else can I possibly do to reassure you?"

"We'll talk," Claire reminded them. "Tomorrow morning. Okay?"

"Two people should be on watch," Luke suggested, "in case."

Jack waved a hand. "Fine. Whatever you need to do."

Trish couldn't help but feel like she was missing something, something about this whole situation. Something terrible. But she couldn't for the life of her think of what it could possibly be.

* * *

 **Another long chapter! I decided to combine chapters 15 and 16, so we now have 21 chapters and an epilogue instead of 22. :) Action comes in the next chapter!**

 **Thanks for all of your thoughts and support, as always! :) And, as always, let me know what you think of this chapter! I love hearing from you.**

 **This is also the last Monday of classes for me for the spring semester! So the exact time I update might change next week depending on my finals and work and things like that. And then after finals I'll be working near full time, so that will affect update times as well. I don't know for sure what that's going to look like, but I'll figure out a system once I get into the swing of things. :)**

 **Only 7 chapters left! :O**


	16. Chapter 16

**Chapter 16**

The morning dawned in watery yellow light, chill, and sobriety.

The very moment that the Doctor became aware of the world, before he'd even taken stock of how he was feeling, he sat up and opened his eyes.

Jack's arm, which had been protectively wrapped around the Doctor's middle, fell off. Jack did little more than grumble in his sleep, hardly even stirring. The Doctor, hesitantly, touched a finger to Jack's hand, half-expecting another rush of thought, but it never came. His so carefully constructed walls had rebuilt themselves again, as if they'd never crumbled. His vision was no longer blurry or indistinct, or overwhelming in the slightest (except for the headache it was beginning to give him). His hands trembled, but he suspected that was due to withdrawal rather than anything else. He didn't feel hungry, or tired, or slow.

The worst that could be said was that he was an uncomfortable mix of sweaty and cold, and there was a fist of dread wrapped around his chest.

He turned his attention outside himself, and found two pairs of wary eyes on him. Luke's, distrustful as always, and Trish's, more than a little fearful.

"You seem better," Trish said, remarkably calmly.

"Er, I think so," the Doctor replied. His hand scratched absently at the back of his neck. He still felt weird - spacey was probably the right word - but compared to how things had been he couldn't complain. He tried to search his memory and thought he could remember everything, but just in case, he asked, "I didn't say anything too embarrassing, did I? I don't think I did, but I was wondering, you know…"

"I'll get Claire," Luke said, without answering the question.

"Oh," the Doctor muttered. He felt his cheeks heat a little, despite his best efforts. "That's unfortunate. What-"

"No," Trish interrupted. "You didn't." She attempted a smile, but with her posture - twisting to face away from him as much as possible without turning her back to him - and the strain on her face, it didn't turn out well.

"Oh, good," the Doctor said back, with what he thought was a much more convincing smile. Beside him, Jack twitched, hard enough to knock into the Doctor's leg, and muttered a drowsy, "Doc?"

"I'm here," the Doctor assured him. The way Jack visibly relaxed left a strange fluttering regret in his stomach, strong enough to reach up and sour his mouth.

"I think we slept in," Jack grumbled as he sat up. He tried to tame his hair, under Trish's nervous gaze. "Usually with the whole saving-people thing, we get up a little earlier."

"It's nine," the Doctor told him, trying to hide a smile. Mostly, it was out of relief - his time sense was back in full - but, well, he was allowed his own bit of amusement at Jack's expense, after everything.

Jack grinned. "Fine, okay, nine. Feeling better?"

The Doctor grinned back. "Much, actually."

"That's good," Trish said. She took a deep breath. "Claire wants to run a few tests this morning, before we do anything else."

"Like what?" the Doctor asked. His stomach sank a little. This was about last night, wasn't it? What he'd said, and what they'd thought of it.

Trish gave Jack a look that begged for him to explain instead of her, but Jack just stared back. Finally, she gave in. "Do you remember last night?" she asked.

The Doctor paused. If he lied and said no, they could potentially be led to some conclusions that might trouble them. Or maybe it would give more credence to the idea that he was not, in fact, remembering anything, and it had simply been a result of his state of mind. If he said yes, there would be more questions that he probably couldn't answer, unless he wanted to give himself away.

He settled on "maybe," which, the moment he said it, he knew was not at all helpful, to them or himself.

Trish squinted at him. "'Maybe?'" she repeated. "What does that mean?"

The Doctor felt Jack's eyes boring into him, pressuring him to say something, anything, that made some kind of sense. He shrugged. "I hope you can forgive me for being a little uncertain about what I remember," he said. "But, er, I think I know what you're talking about."

Before Trish could say anything more, Luke returned, followed by Claire and Jessica. Claire, armed with her bag, sat on the coffee table directly in front of the Doctor.

With a quick glance, she determined, "You're feeling better, then."

He quirked a smile. "Mostly, yes."

She shone a light in his eyes, tested his reflexes, various other things which he suspected were just to kill time. At last, she looked into his eyes and sighed. "I don't know how to tell if you're lying," she admitted. "About remembering. We have a lot of evidence against you. Things you yourself have said."

The Doctor sighed, rubbed at his neck again. "I'm not," he told her, firmly. "You can consider my actions in the past as the result of the _fear_ of remembering, not the actual act of doing so." He cleared his throat. The room rang with silence.

"We can't trust you," Jessica said. She exchanged a look with Trish, who muttered something indistinct about "first dose might have worn off sooner, too."

"You can trust me or not, but it will still be the truth," the Doctor insisted. "I'm sorry I worried you. It wasn't intentional, believe me."

Claire bit her lip. "There's not much we can really do to be sure," she said. "When I said tests, I...I don't know what there is to be done. But I'm not seeing any of the usual signs of lying."

Jessica shook her head. "I know," she agreed, "I just…"

"I understand," the Doctor told her, though the words burned his mouth at the same time with their bitterness. "I really do. Look, let's move on, shall we? Be wary of me all you want, but Jack needs to get kidnapped soon, before someone else does."

Jack nudged him. "Don't sound so eager about it."

The Doctor nudged him back. The banter was the smallest bit of relief, in all of this. It was amazing what a friendly face could do for one's emotional well-being. "Don't take it personally, Jack," he teased. "It's just that you're so kidnap-able."

The Doctor had to hold back a full-on grin as Jack flipped an imaginary lock of long hair over his shoulder and batted his eyelashes. "You flatter me. But I have a boyfriend."

Trish cleared her throat.

Forcefully reigning in his amusement, the Doctor turned back to her. "Sorry, right. Kidnapping."

Jack clapped his hands, just once. "How do we do this?"

* * *

Jack himself volunteered to neatly sew the tracking device into his collar. He handled the needle deftly, but Jessica couldn't help but notice how he wielded it as if stitching up a wound rather than clothing.

He cut the thread and shrugged the shirt back on. "Is it too visible back there?" he asked, turning for them to see as he buttoned up.

Kilgrave squinted, leaning closer. "Well," he hedged. "It's not...not noticeable."

"Great vote of confidence, there, Doc," Jack snarked.

"It's fine," Trish decreed. "We know to look for it, that's why we're seeing it so easily. If you pull the collar down a little further, it'll probably be fine."

"The stitching is just sneaking out the bottom a bit," Kilgrave clarified. He helped Jack adjust the collar's fold, and smoothed it down carefully. "There, that's better. It's definitely not the natural fold, but it'll do."

"They probably won't be expecting you to be being tracked, anyway," Luke pointed out. "They don't have any reason to suspect anything."

"Unless they've seen him with us already," Jessica said.

Jack stood, moving to adjust his sleeves. "Too late to worry about that now," he dismissed. "Either they'll get me, or they won't. Not much we can do to change their minds after the fact."

"So!" Kilgrave cracked his knuckles. "You see the van, you run up, you let yourself get taken. We'll be close by, but obviously we can't be too close, or we might get ourselves caught."

Jessica frowned at his words. "'We?'" she repeated. "What makes you think you're going to play any part in this?"

He blinked. "I may have assumed," he said, obviously treading carefully. "I could be backup at least, couldn't I?"

Jessica forced a deep breath. "I guess," she said on a sigh.

He almost smiled - just the faintest tired twitch of the lips. "Jack, where's your coat?"

Trish brought it over without further prompting, turning both it and the strange wristband over back into their owner's possession.

Jessica saw as Kilgrave's eyes locked on the wristband immediately. "You didn't!" he exclaimed. "Jack!"

"It was only a few days back," Jack defended. "It's dead now, in any case. Almost killed me."

Kilgrave raised his eyebrows. "Well, I wonder why."

"Don't give me that. I came here to help you, in case you forgot."

Jessica interrupted, swiping her hand through the air. "What the hell is it?" She wondered why she hadn't thought to ask about it before. She'd almost completely forgotten its presence. That thought sent a creeping chill down her back, and she had to clench her jaw against it. It was entirely possible that, in all the chaos, her brain had simply filed it away as irrelevant. But it felt worse than that - creepy, weird.

"Vortex Manipulator," Jack replied promptly. He tossed it over to Kilgrave, who caught it gingerly, with a look on his face like it carried a bad odor.

"And that means?" Claire prompted.

Jack glanced to Kilgrave, who looked expectantly back at him. "It's a teleporter-type thing," Jack finally explained. "Temperamental, not easy to use. Not to mention, it doesn't like to hold a charge."

"You said you worked for an investigative company?" Trish said, folding her arms.

Jack turned a harmless smile in her direction, but his eyes glinted strangely, a little bit too mischievous for Jessica's liking. "We investigate new technologies," he said, all too smoothly. "Among other things. This turned up in one of our cases, and I got to keep it."

Kilgrave said, "stole," around a fake cough. Jack poked him in the side.

"Not that I'm not curious," Luke cut in, "but let's sort our priorities here. If it doesn't work, we don't need to worry about it now. When we're done with this, we can ask all the questions we want. Right?"

A ghost of a smile crossed Kilgrave's face. "Of course," he obliged. "Glad to help when I can."

Jack stood, and pulled on his coat. The moment it settled on his shoulders, some small amount of tension fled his body. Kilgrave joined him, both of them stood facing each other in their long coats, and Jessica understood why they were friends. They cut similar figures, standing there, with nearly-identical expressions of slight worry. If nothing else, they did a good job of matching.

"Try not to get yourself killed," Kilgrave said. "That might complicate things." Jessica searched for the humor in his voice, but found little.

Jack quirked a smile. "I'll do my best, but I make no promises," he said, slightly less grave. "Here." He dug in his pocket for a moment, before pulling out a string with a key on it, and pressing it into Kilgrave's hand.

Kilgrave stared down at the key for a long moment, eyes wide. "You still have it," he said, finally.

"Thought it might help," Jack offered, smile widening. "Keep it safe, won't you? I'll want it back, if you're willing to give it to me."

Kilgrave looked up at him, and smiled. And nodded. "Of course, Jack. Always."

"What is it?" Trish wondered.

"A key to a very important box," Jack said, still grinning. "He gave it to me a long time ago. I think he forgot to take it back."

Kilgrave scuffed a sneakered foot against the floor. "I didn't forget by accident," he said quietly. "You're always welcome, Jack."

"Sure," Jack said, his voice going tight. It sounded, to Jessica's ears, like he didn't quite believe it. "Thank you."

She brushed off her questions and suspicions, deciding she had more important things to worry about. When she wanted to dig up whatever secrets they were keeping, she was confident that she could. It was her job, after all. For now, she would just keep an eye on things. Make sure this next task went according to plan before she concerned herself with the more complex issues. For her own sanity, if nothing else.

"We should move out," she announced. She tried to ignore the nerves clenching her stomach. Focused on the fact that the people she cared about were safe. If this didn't work, she wouldn't lose anything. It would be inconvenient, but it would be okay. "We think they're planning to return to the police station relatively soon to spread the drug there again, so we'll give you directions and we'll meet you there."

Jack took a few steps away from Kilgrave, and nodded. "I'll expect you to come rescue me in a couple days time, at most," he said. "That's the plan?"

"We'll do our best," Trish replied. "But yeah, I would say that if you don't hear from us in two days to, uh…"

"Give up hope," Jessica finished curtly.

Jack glanced to Kilgrave, who gave a wincing sort of shrug. "Fine," Jack relented. "I guess I can't expect much. We don't exactly know what we're walking into." He visibly steeled himself.

Jessica felt a little bad, she had to admit. She didn't like the idea of sending someone - anyone, even a friend of the person she hated most - into unknown territory, for god-knew-what set to happen to him.

But he had volunteered. And she knew she was needed to help carry out the tracking - she was well-versed in sneaking around and getting information. And she wasn't about to turn over someone she cared about, not when someone else had already stepped up to the plate.

"Okay," Jack said, on an exhale. He smiled, wide, as if everything was fine. As if he wasn't risking his life for them. "Let's do this."

* * *

 **A much shorter chapter today (and much later than I intended to post :( ), and kind of hastily edited, but I hope you can forgive me lol. I only fully realized how _much_ I had to study for yesterday, and I've been going at the books like crazy for the past few days. My first exam is tomorrow morning, so keep me in your thoughts lmao.**

 **As always, thanks for reading! And I of course appreciate whatever feedback you have for me. I felt like this chapter wasn't super great, and kind of rushed, but I don't have the time to fix it and I just wanted to get it posted for you guys. So tell me what improvements I could potentially make, if you think it needs it.**

 **I may or may not post an extra chapter at the end of the week, Friday or Saturday maybe, after I'm moved back home. I'm anxious for you guys to read the rest of the story. :)**

 **For those of you that have finals this week, or have them coming up in the next few weeks - good luck!**


	17. Chapter 17

**Chapter 17**

Jack was stuck at the police station for hours.

Jessica could detect his every movement - if he stepped even a foot to the right, she could see it. A good sign, all things considered. It meant, at least, that they were unlikely to lose him.

Everyone had started out crowded around the laptop they were using to track him, but after more than an hour of inactivity, the majority of them had pulled back to do other things. Or, as many other things as they could do, all crammed as they were into Trish's tiny car. Claire had gone home before they'd left, with the promise that she would be available to help if they needed her, just a phone call away. Trish had brought a book, but was already paging through it restlessly, clearly bored. Luke stared out the window, lost in thought. Every once in awhile he would glance over, apparently feeling Jessica's eyes on him, but she made an effort to look away immediately.

Kilgrave had been made to come along, out of necessity more than anything. The last thing anybody wanted to do was leave him alone in the apartment, but nobody wanted to stay with him, either. So they'd settled for sitting him beside Luke in the backseat, his hands ziptied together in his lap. He'd been long since freed of the band around his ankle, and seemed all-too-pleased with that turn of events, despite their current situation.

He and Jessica were the only ones still actively paying attention to the laptop.

"We could be here for a long time," he remarked, nearly in Jessica's ear. She only managed to hold back from reflexively smacking him, turning it into a weird little flinch at the last minute. "Sorry, sorry," he amended immediately, though he only pulled back slightly. "But I mean, do we have any _real_ guesses as to when they'll pop in?"

"The drug lasts a week, on average," Jessica said back, sharply. "It's been almost a week, exactly. From what I've heard from the clients, the police are starting to seem a little more aware of the situation. I take it that means they're due for another dose within the next 24 hours."

Kilgrave sighed. "I don't like waiting. I've never been good at stakeouts. You could ask Jack, if he wasn't playing bait." He set his chin on Trish's seat, just beside the headrest. She forced a sigh of her own to indicate that she was aware of his presence there, but ignored him.

"I believe you," Jessica grumbled.

"What book is that, again?" Kilgrave prompted. "Trish."

With another sigh, she closed it. "You asked me that an hour ago."

Jessica couldn't help but smirk as Kilgrave frowned. "I think I zoned out for that," he admitted. "I'm still a little off, you see. Spacey." Then, seemingly at nothing, he grinned. "Wibbly-wobbly, timey-wimey, spacey-wacey. Brilliant! Can't believe I didn't think of that before."

"You sure you aren't still high?" Luke asked, without even a whiff of humor.

Kilgrave inhaled in a way that made it seem like he was about to answer, but then abruptly stopped. "Er, Jessica."

She stomped down her annoyance as much as possible. "What?"

"Where's Jack?"

Frowning, Jessica looked back down to the tracking screen. The steady green dot that was Jack was still firmly where she'd last seen it. "He's still there."

"He is definitely _not_ ," Kilgrave said. Without warning, he lurched across the backseat. Luke grabbed at him, but didn't manage to catch him before he was out the door and in the road.

Jessica's heart leapt into her throat. She threw open her own door, half-tossing the laptop into a shocked Trish's lap. "Shit! What the hell are you doing?" she demanded as she fought to catch up to him. She frantically pushed past the few bystanders around Hell's Kitchen at this hour, racing her way down the two blocks separating them from the police station.

She only caught up to Kilgrave moments before he reached Jack's location, and managed to grab him by the shoulders, practically tackling him on the sidewalk.

However, she looked up just in time to see that Kilgrave was right. Jack had vanished.

She only barely stopped herself from releasing Kilgrave out of shock. "What the fuck!" she shouted. The words seemed to escape of their own accord, torn out by shock and fear.

Kilgrave twisted away from her, despite the iron grip she had on him, and rushed forward again. By the time she'd grabbed him again, hard enough to threaten a broken bone, he had bent down and retrieved a scrap of fabric. Or, not just fabric, she corrected, horror growing dark in her throat. It was the tracker, torn off of Jack's collar.

"Oh, Jack," Kilgrave murmured. "They must've had a scanner. They were expecting us to try and find them." He turned the tracker, still surrounded by the now-tattered fabric it had been sewn into, over in his hands, examining it. "We know it still works," he pondered. Then, to Jessica's surprise, he tucked it into his pants pocket. "No matter!" he announced. "We'll find him."

Jessica stared. She shook him a little, forcibly turned him to face her. "How in the hell are we supposed to do that now?" she demanded. "You fucking sociopath, you don't even care that your friend-"

"Jack will be fine," Kilgrave interrupted, firmly, with nothing but certainty in his voice. He looked deep into her eyes, without blinking. "He's very durable."

"We don't even know if those people they took are _alive_ ," Jessica snapped, but she was interrupted again as Kilgrave looked down and started pulling at the ziptie that bound him.

"Just follow me," he said, with something like anticipation coloring his voice. "Can you let go of my arm, please?"

Out of spite, Jessica only gripped it tighter. She imagined she could hear the bone creaking.

Sure enough, Kilgrave winced, and stopped what he was doing. "Do you want to find Jack, or don't you?" he asked. He made a vain attempt to tug away from her, though that ended quickly as he winced again.

"Obviously," she replied after he'd stilled again. "I'm not a total asshole, okay? But we've lost him. You have the tracker, you held it in your hand. He's _gone_. We can hope that he finds a way to contact us and let us know where he is, but I don't think that's going to happen." It took her a moment to summon up the courage to say the words, but eventually, with Kilgrave staring wide-eyed at her, she managed it: "I'm sorry, okay? It sucks."

He almost, _almost_ , smiled at her. Just the faintest flicker of a sad smile, that clenched her stomach with a feeling like sour sympathy.

And then he snapped the ziptie, cleanly. The strain hadn't even shown on his face, she realized in the moment that immediately followed. What the _hell_.

She'd accidentally loosened her grip in her effort to be nice, she realized with a stab of fury. As he tore away from her, he managed to at the same time pass a string, weighed down by a small weight, into her hand.

"Put that on!" he called over his shoulder as he ran.

Jessica didn't even take the time to shove it into her pocket before she was after him.

He was _fast_. That was her first thought. Her chest began to burn and her legs started to go numb before she even began to catch up to him. She recalled, vaguely, him mentioning how much he loved running. She guessed he enjoyed it for a reason.

His long coat fanned out behind him, whipping in the wind. "You don't have it on!" he called to her. "I'm not kidding, you should do that!"

He hardly sounded out of breath, which Jessica found profoundly unfair. She wouldn't have called herself out of shape, but she also couldn't deny the wheeze in her voice as she shouted back, "What the hell are you doing?"

"Finding Jack! He's a few blocks down, and over some."

She forced her legs to go faster, though she could hardly feel them, and managed to get close enough to snatch at his coat, sending the both of them crashing down with a curse.

"Hey!" someone shrieked just behind her. She rolled over, waving them blindly off, just in time to pin Kilgrave to the concrete.

"Ow, ow, ow," he complained. "You got my hands." He tried to wriggle out of her grip, insisting, "I know where Jack is, please listen to me."

"How?" she huffed, straining for air. "And how'd you break that fucking ziptie? I swear to fucking God-"

"I can explain later," he panted, " _after_ we've dealt with this, yes? You called me a sociopath - I'm not. I want to save Jack, and all the others. Please."

She hauled him upright, ignoring his squeak of protest, and shoved the string back into his hands the moment he was on his feet. Around them, the few people on the street steered clear. Jessica locked eyes, just briefly, with someone by a crosswalk who immediately crossed to the other side upon seeing her. "What is this?" she said, turning her attention back to Kilgrave.

He opened his hand, revealing nothing else but the key Jack had given him just before they'd left. "It's a key," he replied. "But it's also a perception filter."

"A what?"

"It'll keep them from noticing us, when we sneak in," he explained. "I've got one of my own." He reached into his coat and pulled out an identical key, although this one was on a different colored string. As she stared, he slipped it over his head like a necklace.

She raised an eyebrow at him. "Was that supposed to do something?"

"Well, it won't work on you," he said, peevishly, frowning at her. "You already know I'm here. But if you _didn't_ , you'd be inclined to just ignore me. You might not even register my presence at all!" He gave her the other key. "Please. Just humor me, won't you?"

She wanted nothing more than to throw it back in his face, push him down, drag him back to the car - anything but listen to him.

But she remembered Jack, and his understanding eyes, and charming smile, and how he'd wanted to help. How he'd been willing to sacrifice himself. He'd trusted Kilgrave, and although Jessica was instinctively suspicious, Kilgrave claimed to know what was going on.

It was more than she could say for herself.

"God fucking dammit," she snarled. She clenched the key in her hand, debating uselessly with herself for a moment. Then, finally, she released a harsh breath and, in one jerky motion, threw the string around her neck.

Kilgrave _beamed_ at her, and although she expected some small strain of smugness, or slimey superiority, to be there in his expression, she found nothing but relief, and some breathless sort of happiness.

"Thank you," he said. And then he nudged her arm, and dashed off again. This time, she managed to keep right on his heels from the start.

Not a minute later, her phone began to buzz insistently in her pocket. She very nearly stumbled as she pulled it out of her pocket, but luckily she was practiced enough that she kept her footing. "Trish," she said, immediately, upon answering, "I'm okay."

"You completely vanished!" Trish half-shouted. "But I'm tracking Jack, now, I have his location-"

"It's not his," Jessica panted, "it's ours. Me and Kilgrave's."

"What?" Trish cried. "What the hell is going on?"

"They got Jack," Jessica hastily explained. "Kilgrave has the tracker on him. Are you following us?"

Exasperatedly, Trish said, "We're a few blocks behind you. What happened?"

"They tore the tracker off of him," Jessica said. "Somehow Kilgrave says he knows where he is. I didn't have any choice but to trust him, Trish. We have no other option."

Trish cursed quietly under her breath. "Okay, okay. We'll keep an eye on you guys. Keep in touch."

"I'll call you," Jessica clarified. "I think we're going to try and sneak in, Trish. Don't call me."

Trish made a frustrated, painful sound in the back of her throat. "Okay," she allowed. "I won't. Be safe, Jessica. I mean it. If you have to leave Kilgrave behind, or Jack behind, or anyone, to get out of there safely, do it. Please."

Jessica couldn't bring herself to agree. She didn't want to promise anything. "I'll be safe," she said instead, and hung up.

* * *

Not far outside the familiar streets of Hell's Kitchen, Kilgrave stopped cold, so quickly Jessica nearly bowled him over.

"What the he-" she began, before he cut her off with a harsh shushing noise, waving a hand absently in front of her face. She shoved it down and away from her, but he didn't even seem to notice.

"It's around here," he whispered. The throngs of people had thinned out. Those that remained didn't look twice at the two of them standing square in the middle of the sidewalk. They simply moved past, without even a glance.

Jessica was starting, despite herself, to believe Kilgrave's claims about the keys.

Slowly, he began to creep forward again. And then stopped. "Oh! There! Do you see that?"

Jessica squinted, not sure where she was supposed to be looking. She scanned over the skyline, the jagged cut of the buildings into the darkening sky. "No."

"Look harder," he urged. "You have to really look."

"I'm looking," she snapped. "I know how to use my eyes. They aren't seeing anything."

"It's a perception filter," he continued, now speaking only barely above a whisper. "Like we're using. It's why people don't notice the vans, or the missing license plates. It's why people haven't really noticed the kidnappings. Even if they do observe them, they immediately forget. More likely, they don't see it happen at all, even if it's right in front of them."

Jessica frowned. "Jack's wristband," she said, recalling how she'd forgotten about it the second it had left her hands. Like it had never been there at all.

Kilgrave smiled. "Yes," he admitted. "I think he put that in relatively recently - last I knew that hunk of junk was entirely _too_ noticeable." He pointed again. "It's a big building, looks like it was once an office, but certainly by now it's something far worse."

Jessica gave in, looked again. And she saw it. Like it had been there the whole time. Big and gray, an ugly, looming object in the skyline. A new shape in the familiar outlines, one Jessica had never seen before, despite all her years in New York. The windows were entirely, ominously dark.

"Oh my god," she breathed. "What the fuck."

"Quite," Kilgrave said. "Come on, then, Jones, we've got some sneaking in to do." He started off again, only walking briskly this time. "The closer we get, the more careful we have to be," he explained. "They shouldn't notice us, unless we make ourselves noticed."

"How do you know about all this?" Jessica demanded. "Perception filters. That's literally crazy."

"I promise I'll explain when this is over," Kilgrave said. He glanced over to her, eyes wide and earnest. He looked better, Jessica couldn't help but notice with a bolt of surprise. Still pale, and thin...and his feet had to be absolutely killing him. But there was something on his face. Or maybe it was something _missing_ from it. Some burden. "I owe you that, at least."

"You'd better," Jessica replied. And she forced herself to let it go. She had other people to worry about now. The most important thing was rescuing as many people as possible. She could interrogate Kilgrave later. Though the questions continued to build up, gathering near-painfully in her chest, she tried to breathe.

There would be time.

"For now," Kilgrave said quietly, "let's just leave it at...I've learned a few things. While I've been on my own." It didn't quite sound like emotion was choking him, but something lingered in the back of his throat, enough to thicken his words. His face, however, when Jessica looked to it, remained practically expressionless.

She repressed a shudder. Tried to remember that, as far as she knew, he was safe. Even if he was remembering, he still didn't have his powers. She was strong, and likely still immune to the virus. Trish and Luke were safely far away. She could hold her own, if things got to that point.

Jessica clenched her fists, focused on that, tried to relax.

"Okay," Kilgrave said, as they continued to approach. The building loomed ever-larger over them. "We'll attract less attention to ourselves if we sneak in the back."

"Okay," Jessica grit out. "Are we just hoping they left the door unlocked?"

"I figured you could pick it if they didn't," he replied, not quite sheepishly. "I'm not too terrible at lock-picking myself, but it's been awhile since I've had to make use of that particular skill. I'm afraid I might be a bit out of practice."

The two of them kept as much to the shadows as possible, made much easier by the approaching night. Kilgrave insisted on not speaking as they reached the alley behind the building, or even as the two of them examined the side entrance - a dingy, rusted, unused door.

Jessica had to pick the lock, much to her displeasure, but it gave way easily. It didn't seem, to her eye, that this particular entrance had been used in ages. The kidnappers had obviously been confident enough in their skills and technology that they hadn't felt much need to sneak around.

Before he opened the door, Kilgrave gave her a significant look. "I don't know what we'll find," he hedged in barely a whisper.

Jessica only just managed to restrain a snort of derision. "I've seen my fair share of gore," she informed.

Kilgrave's mouth quirked up. It wasn't a smile. "Could be that," he acknowledged. "Could not be. Be prepared for anything, then, shall we?" He waited for her to roll her eyes and nod before slowly turning the door handle and pushing the door open. Jessica noted how he lifted the door on its hinges, just a little, enough to keep it from creaking too terribly. It was the subtlest of touches, but it told her a few more things about him - this definitely wasn't his first time sneaking around.

The hallway beyond was nearly pitch black, only illuminated by a few tiny windows. What Jessica could see was mostly just empty space and floating dust mites. She itched with displeasure at the lack of visibility, a sensation which only increased as Kilgrave carefully shut the door behind them.

He pointed upward, then made a sort of walking gesture with his fingers.

 _Stairs_ , Jessica gathered, and nodded. She copied his pointing upward, then turned her finger to point at the floor as well. Schooled her features into something skeptical, an expression cartoonish enough to be conveyed even in the near-darkness.

He made a vague gesture indicating height, and pointed up again. Then tapped the shell of his ear.

Jessica raised her eyebrows. Did he seriously expect her to believe that he could hear them? She strained to listen, but could find nothing but her own breathing, the pounding of her heart in her ears. Not so much as a creak on the floor above their heads. The eerie silence had her clenching her teeth in anticipation. She caught Kilgrave's eye again, and shook her head emphatically.

He changed tactics, tapping at his temple instead. Mouthed, _Jack._ Pointed upwards again.

She repeated the skeptical look, although she was quickly getting tired of arguing with him. By the look on his face, he was just as tired of attempting to explain whatever his reasoning was. Jessica threw up her hands to indicate surrender, and breathed a frustrated, "okay," in response.

He very nearly smiled, but it didn't fully take form on his face. With a jerk of his head to one side, to forewarn her of his intended direction, the two of them started off again.

Hurrying and being quiet were two things that were incredibly difficult to do simultaneously, especially in boots. However, after plenty of practice while on cases, Jessica was halfway decent at it, although it tended to take more energy out of her than flat-out sprinting might have done. But if she thought running on a flat surface quietly was hard, she had another thing coming when they finally reached a stairwell.

She eventually gave up once they had climbed several flights, and gave in to her body's demands. She wouldn't have called her steps loud, but they certainly weren't quiet. Kilgrave kept shooting her nervous looks, but he never made a move to stop her.

At least, not until they reached the fifth floor, where he stopped cold in his tracks and threw an arm out to prevent her from moving forward. He tapped at his ear again, but this time she _could_ hear something - the soft humming of machinery.

It didn't tell her much, but by the look on Kilgrave's face he'd gotten something a little more sinister out of it. He'd gone a little pale, his freckles standing out starkly on his face. He gave her a worried glance, then jerked his head toward the door leading onto the floor.

Reluctantly, Jessica nodded.

They didn't have to pick this lock - the door eased open without any trouble, without so much as a squeak. Evidently the kidnappers were confident enough in their minimal defenses that they hadn't thought to add any extra security.

They had to have cameras or something though, didn't they? If she was hiding a building, she'd want to keep an eye on it, especially with how easy this particular one was to access. But so far, she'd seen no sign of monitoring equipment. And Kilgrave hadn't mentioned it either.

The mechanical humming only increased in volume as they made their way down yet another creepy, unlit hallway. There were few doors and even fewer lights. Jessica expected them to explore each room they stumbled across, for thoroughness' sake, even reached for a few doorknobs herself, but Kilgrave simply kept walking.

She had just opened her mouth to question him when they turned a corner, and entered a huge room.

A huge room that was filled with screens and operating tables and cages.

And a group of tall, hooded figures.

* * *

 **Rereading this chapter, I remembered how much fun I had writing it. It's nice to have some action again!**

 **And now we're actually coming to the end of the story. Only 5 more chapters to go...that's so crazy! Thanks, as always, for all your support and love. I enjoy hearing from you guys more than you know. :)**

 **The weekend was busier than I expected, so I didn't get around to that extra update. But I'm still updating on time, so we'll count that as a win lol! I hope those of you that had finals did well, and I hope those of you that have them this week or in the upcoming weeks do well, too. And for anyone still in school for awhile - you're almost done! Power through!**

 **Please tell me what you think of this chapter, and any other thoughts about the story as a whole you have, or anything at all. Thank you all so much!**


	18. Chapter 18

**Chapter 18**

Kilgrave tapped the key around his throat, shooting Jessica a pointed look. Reminding her that they weren't going to be seen, she guessed. He still pressed a finger to his lips, though, a silent signal for quiet, before creeping slowly forward.

Jessica peered inside the cages as they passed, recognizing with a jolt every single one of the people she'd been hired to find. Roger Hart, Carrie Barret, Maria Lopez, Monica Highland...all of them. For the most part, they seemed unharmed, if slightly gaunt and pale. A few were unconscious, but had no visible injuries. The majority of them were hooked up to IVs, most of which contained strange and colorful substances that turned Jessica's stomach to look at.

Her skin crawled as she watched them stare obliviously past her and Kilgrave, although the two of them were right in front of the cages, in plain sight.

Kilgrave caught her attention with a careful wave, and mouthed "safe for now," while pointing at the prisoners. He then pointed to the group of hooded figures, all standing around what looked to be a table, and held up an index finger.

 _We're dealing with them first_ , Jessica deduced. She grit her teeth. The last thing she wanted to do was walk away from these people while they were still trapped, still in danger. But the strategy made sense. It would do no good to let the prisoners escape if they would just get immediately recaptured by the kidnappers. Many of them wouldn't be able to get out without assistance, anyway, Jessica suspected.

A weird, guttural noise caught her attention. She whipped around to stare at the hooded kidnappers, who were now exchanging the noises rapidly, and with tone, in a way that suggested language. But it was no kind of language Jessica had heard before. She wasn't even sure she'd be able to _make_ a sound like that without hurting herself.

Beside her, Kilgrave's eyes widened, and his mouth popped open. "Oh," he breathed, the sound no louder than a dropping pin. "Garoxys."

Jessica considered this information for a moment, vainly attempting to make some kind of sense out of it. She frowned at him, and her glare was strong enough to catch his eye and make him look at her.

"I'll explain later," he mouthed.

Yeah, okay, fair enough. Now wasn't the time. But when this was done she was going to hit him with so many questions his head would spin.

The strange grunting language drew to a halt. One of the kidnappers pulled away from the table and approached a control panel of sorts, tapping a few buttons and pulling up a screen. Markings scrolled across it, presumably the written form of their language. Diagrams - of the human body, in fact - joined the markings. Graphs and tables and pages and pages of information.

Jessica glanced back at the prisoners, and their IVs, and then to the kidnappers again.

 _They're running experiments_ , she thought. _Testing drugs, maybe? That would follow with the Kilgrave theory…_

Kilgrave breathed, "oh, Jack, I'm so sorry," and Jessica tore herself back to the figures surrounding the table. Only it wasn't fully obscured anymore, and she could clearly see Jack lying on top of it, his arms and legs pinned, eyes rolling in his head. He looked sick; pale and tired and far too still.

The kidnappers exchanged a few words. One of them swept right past Jessica and Kilgrave, but didn't so much as spare them a glance while checking over the prisoners. It all felt surreal. Jessica couldn't help but think that at any moment the kidnappers would look right at them, and it would all be over.

A child's cry started up, muffled and tortured and absolutely devastating. Jessica could feel herself shaking with the strength of her anger.

Kilgrave clenched his jaw.

He said, at nearly a normal volume, "go into the hall, down a couple flights, and call for help. Luke is probably best. Trish can be backup."

Jessica scowled. The kidnappers stopped talking, and started to look around for the source of the noise. "Don't order me around," she breathed, as vehemently as possible. "What the fuck do you think you're doing?"

"Please," he said. "Be careful. Be quiet." Then, in one smooth motion, he pulled the key on its string over his head, and shouted, "Well! What's going on here?"

The kidnappers all turned to look at him. Jessica didn't register the blue skin until she was already moving, stepping carefully back. None of them looked at her.

"What are you doing here?" one of the kidnappers spat, in an accent Jessica had never before heard in her life. Considering she lived in New York City, that was saying something.

"Just thought I'd come visit, after you gave me such a warm welcome in that alley," Kilgrave said, feigning cheerfulness. "Quite an operation you've got here. Impressive."

Jessica continued walking backwards, one silent step at a time.

"How did you find us?" another of them demanded, shrill enough that it sounded _anxious_.

Jessica reached the door. Pushing it open without making noise was an event, but the kidnappers were too distracted by Kilgrave to pay much attention to her.

"Oh, just a bit of luck," Kilgrave said.

Jessica escaped into the hall, and started dialling the moment the door closed behind her.

* * *

The second the door closed behind Jessica, the Doctor allowed himself a moment of relief.

And then, it was back to business.

"Dispose of him," the tallest of the Garoxys declared. "He is wasting our time."

"Dispose of me?" the Doctor repeated. "With what? Aren't exactly weapons experts, you lot. I've always admired that."

"We've learned from the humans of this planet," the tall one sneered. "We have many of their weapons."

Not encouraging. The Doctor forced a sheepish grin. "Well, good on you, I suppose. Preparedness and all. Very clever, very clever." A few of the Garoxys took a step closer, arms extending just slightly to reach out to him. As if he wouldn't notice.

"First, however," the tall one continued, "we will discover how you bypassed our drug."

The sheepish grin turned itself into a very genuine smirk. "Made for humans, innit?" the Doctor said. "Not human. Thought I told you that. Me, I'm a little more resistant to that kind of thing." He spread his hands. "What can I say?"

He moved, in a jolt that was supposed to give him just enough time to dodge the grabbing hands of his attackers, but they snagged him by the legs instead of the arms, as he'd been expecting them to do. He went down, and hit the floor hard enough to drive the breath out of him.

He entertained the thought of kicking them away, but Garoxys were strong. And, moreover, they were already on top of him, hauling him upright again and holding him just above the floor so that he was unable to catch his footing.

Embarrassing, that.

"Who are you?" the leader demanded, stepping closer.

"Who are _you_?" the Doctor wheezed.

The Garox seemed to consider him for a moment, though it was hard to tell with the hood obscuring any facial features. Then, slowly, he lifted blue hands up to the hood, and lowered it.

"I call myself Beran, on this planet," he said. He pronounced it as ' _beer-anne,'_ in his nasally accent. His features were not soft, exactly, but the Doctor wouldn't have called them harsh. Garoxys tended to look semi-humanoid, despite the blue skin and their unusually large heads and hands, but this one especially could have passed for human if some of those distinctive features were subtracted.

He was young. In human years, the Doctor suspected he was no more than 25. For a Garox, he might as well have been a baby.

The Doctor couldn't help but splutter a bit.

Beran scowled, blue lips nearly pouting. "Don't mock me."

"Not mocking," the Doctor hastily assured him, coughing as he continued to try and regain his breath. "Look, Beran, how old are you?"

More scowling. "30," Beran said, in a way that suggested he was not. "On this planet."

The Doctor nodded, once.

Beran straightened the set of his shoulders, glared the Doctor right in the eye. "You owe me an explanation, yourself," he reminded. "No more questions."

"Fair enough," the Doctor obliged. "I'm the Doctor. Nice to meet you."

Beran's eyes flickered doubtfully to his friends, holding the Doctor prisoner.

"No, really," the Doctor said, smiling. "I do love meeting new people, really. I know you said no questions, but can I ask one more?"

Beran glanced up, making uncertain eye contact with one of his friends. Apparently reassured, he looked back to the Doctor. He really was _young_. Maybe 25 was a little too old. "Fine," he allowed. "One more only."

The Doctor dropped his smile. "Why are you doing this?"

Beran froze. "I...this is my work." Another of those glances away, to a different friend, then back. "I wanted to run experiments. My own lab."

Something lingered in Beran's eyes - a yearning to prove himself, the Doctor suspected. The desire to do something amazing. Young Beran had a fire in him. The Doctor opened his mouth, preparing a follow-up question despite their agreement, but Beran was already turning away.

"Humans are interesting creatures," he continued. "They've always fascinated me."

"Me too," the Doctor said, with earnest. "But Beran, why this?" He attempted a gesture, one which was immediately hindered by the other Garoxys. "There are other ways to investigate humanity. Ways that don't do any harm."

"They're hardly more than apes," Beran dismissed. "Barely evolved." Only a short distance away, Jack twitched in his restraints, letting loose a low grumble of pain. The Doctor's hearts twinged. He'd thought he and Jessica would get here sooner, that Jack would be safe, or relatively so.

"They are _people_ ," the Doctor insisted. "Just like you. Beran. Please listen to me." The boy approached one of the control panels by Jack's table. The Doctor's guards shook him, one of them announcing in a higher-pitched voice, "You will only speak when spoken to."

Beran pressed a few buttons, and the lights over Jack's table shut off. "Now," he said, "you will elaborate on how you found us. We took great care in covering our tracks."

"Yes, you're very clever," the Doctor sighed. Impatience burned in his stomach, threatening to turn over into something worse. He wondered how Jessica, Trish, and Luke were coming along. "I have to say, you did a brilliant job. If it weren't for Jack, there, I wouldn't have found you."

Beran turned, a dark frown marring his face. "We removed any possible tracking devices," he said.

"Yes, I noticed," the Doctor replied. "Ruined our stitch job. But you see, Jack's a little bit Wrong. Not his fault, but he is. I'm sort of sensitive to that kind of thing."

Beran's nose wrinkled. "Wrong," he repeated.

"Yes, his timeline," the Doctor clarified. When Beran continued to stare as if this made no sense, the Doctor frowned. "I thought my name might have been rather self-explanatory. I guess I didn't babble as much about myself as I usually do."

Beran straightened up a little again, all bluff and false courage. "What do you mean? Should I know you?"

Now, this was sort of fun, the Doctor had to admit. It had been far too long. "I'm the Doctor, Beran. Haven't you heard of me?" He grinned, relishing for a moment the confusion-slash-frustration on his captor's face. "I'm a Time Lord."

In the same moment, Beran's dark blue skin turned a color more similar to sky-blue, and the door to the hallway flew off its hinges.

* * *

When Jessica, the key that disguised her tucked into her pocket, kicked down the door - literally - and stomped into the room, the last thing she expected was to see the kidnappers backing away from Kilgrave.

One of them, the tallest of the bunch, had their hood down, revealing a bald blue head and not-quite-human features. Features which were arranged to reflect nothing but horror.

Jessica didn't have time to process the skin color, which she'd only caught a confused glimpse of before, or the weird situation. She clenched her hands into fists and barked, "Hey!"

"There are more of them," one of the kidnappers gasped. They sounded like a woman. "Beran, you said this would be safe. You said-"

"It was supposed to be!" the unhooded one shouted. Luke came up behind Jessica, a warm presence at her side. In one of the cages, someone sniffled.

"No one is going to hurt you," Kilgrave said, extending a hand in some kind of soothing gesture. Despite his words, the expression on his face was not a kind one. "Beran, listen to me-"

"If you kill me, someone will know," the unhooded one interrupted, deep accented voice going harsh and fearful. "My family-my family will-"

"Not going to kill you," Kilgrave said, nearly gentle. "The worst you have to fear is the Shadow Proclamation, Beran. You're a minor, they'll treat you lightly."

"What the hell is going on here?" Jessica snapped.

"Someone decided to play mad scientist," Kilgrave explained. Any semblance of niceness dropped from his tone. "Bad plan." Jessica thought, faintly, that he sounded a bit more like the old Kilgrave. She had to lock her knees to keep herself upright.

One of the kidnappers _whimpered_.

"What did you _do?_ " Luke asked, in complete disbelief. "Jessica told me you were in danger."

Kilgrave shrugged. "We were. Bit of a long story." He waved a hand towards the unhooded kidnapper. "This is Beran. Beran, these are my friends Jessica and Luke."

Beran shot them a fearful glance. "Are they-"

"Human," Kilgrave interjected. "They aren't going to hurt you either." He gave Jessica especially an expectant look.

"You do realize," she snapped, "that they still have people in cages here, right? Half of them are unconscious, maybe even dead."

"We wouldn't kill anyone," Beran defended. "And you shouldn't use that tone with me, human."

"Beran," Kilgrave scolded. "Please, for your own good, _shut up_." He then pointed to the cages. "Unlock these for us, please. Get rid of the medical equipment and the drugs. This experiment of yours ends now."

Beran clenched his jaw. "What if I don't?"

"Beran," another of the kidnappers whispered. Jessica was shocked to hear something like tears choking their voice. "Don't do this to us."

"Take a deep breath, everyone," Kilgrave said, not quite stern. "Beran, can you elaborate a little on what you told me earlier? Why are you here?"

Beran crossed his arms defiantly, but another of the kidnappers spoke up in his stead. "We ran away together," they explained in a shaky voice. "All of us. We wanted to be scientists, and at home we were not allowed our own lab. We were developing drugs, to help in the war."

"War," Kilgrave repeated. "Oh, yes, right. With the Ralasin, yes?" Beran nodded stiffly. "Well, right. Forgot about that." Thoughtfully, maybe a little sheepishly, Kilgrave scratched at the back of his neck.

"We wanted to help," Beran said. His arms dropped back to his sides.

Jessica forced herself to dismiss the flood of new information for the moment. "And that makes kidnapping people okay _because_?"

Beran glared at her. "What else could we do? Sit by and watch our people be destroyed?" His voice took on an edge of real fury as he spoke, some of his innocence fading.

"Ralasin biology is very similar to human biology," Kilgrave said. "Right." His voice went a little cold again. "Doesn't hurt that you don't quite think of them as people, either."

" _Real_ people were dying," Beran snapped. "My mother, Araly's brothers…" He gestured to one of the figures beside him, who stood with hunched shoulders. Under the hood Jessica heard them sniffle.

Kilgrave's face fell. "I'm sorry." Jessica, despite herself, felt a twinge of empathy as well. "That doesn't make this okay, Beran. You understand that, don't you?"

"I did what I had to do," Beran said. He lifted his chin, the smallest act of defiance. "I would do it again."

Kilgrave's mouth twisted. "I understand. But I'm going to do what I have to do as well."

Beran swallowed.

And then, something else caught Jessica's attention - the ragged sound of a pained gasp from the table. Jack, waking up from his likely-drug-induced sleep, with a raspy, "Doctor."

Kilgrave winced. He turned a stern eye on the kidnappers. "You lot can take your hoods down. No need for that." They all stared at him in bewilderment until Beran snapped, "Do as he says." Then, one by one, they pulled their hoods back, all revealing more bald blue heads. More alien features.

"Jesus," Jessica muttered. "What the hell did we walk into?" Luke placed a warm hand on her shoulder.

Kilgrave went to Jack's side immediately, hovering uncertain hands over his body. "Hullo, Jack," he said, not even bothering to pretend to be cheerful. His voice echoed eerily around the room. "Feeling a bit poorly, are we?"

"Just kill me, Doctor," Jack hiccuped. Jessica's gut turned as she watched him shudder, his eyes rolling back in his head for a moment. "Please."

"No dying, remember? Can you hold on for a nanosecond, Jack? I've got to make a call."

Jack didn't reply, only shuddered again.

"Jesus," Jessica repeated, loudly enough that Kilgrave turned to look at her. "You have a shit bedside manner."

"He is not really a doctor," Beran practically snarled. "He is a murderer." Kilgrave froze in place, eyes locking on the boy-alien-whatever. "You have as good as killed my family," Beran continued. "I knew your people were monsters, but you are torturers, too. You would not even restrain us, just to let us rot in our fear of you, knowing that we could try to stop you but also knowing that if we did we would die."

Kilgrave's lip curled. "I'm not restraining you because you're children," he said. Jessica recognized the deadly calm in his voice, and couldn't help the prickles of fear that ran over her skin. "And because I know that you know this is wrong, even if you won't admit it."

"The ends justify the means," Beran near-growled. "That's something humans say, isn't it? They are no different then us, so you claim, but you would let my people die to protect these apes? Does that not mean that we're inferior in your eyes?"

"I'm sorry, Beran. Really, I am," Kilgrave said. His voice went earnest and sharp. "I've been in your place. I know how it feels. But this is how things have to be."

"Doctor," Jack whispered.

Kilgrave snapped his jaw shut with an audible click of teeth, and went to the control panel. "Start freeing these people, please, everyone. Get the medical supplies in a pile and we'll burn them." He pressed a few buttons, and the screen in front of him lit up again with more of those strange characters. Somehow, though, he plowed onward as if he could read them, fingers flying over the controls. "Jessica, you didn't already tell Trish to call the police, did you?"

Luke squeezed her shoulder. "No," she grit out, "but she's about to. I told her to call if she didn't hear from us in fifteen minutes."

"We still have six left," Kilgrave said. "Should be fine."

More questions gathered, but Jessica quashed them. She turned on Beran and his friends, who had huddled close together, whispering amongst themselves. "Unlock the cages," she said.

Though he looked at her with nothing but hatred, Beran complied. He crossed to another panel, haltingly keyed in some kind of code, and a loud buzz echoed throughout the room as each of the cage doors clicked open at once.

"Shadow Proclamation's on its way," Kilgrave declared. "They should be here in a few moments, just before the police arrive. Probably just beam you lot up, right quick."

Jessica started forward, reaching into the nearest cage to half-drag out a sobbing Carrie Barret, before Kilgrave said, "Leave them, Jessica."

She paused. Turned to face him, slowly. "You want me to leave this girl here?" she clarified. Even to her own ears, her voice sounded far more poisonous than usual.

Kilgrave didn't even pause in whatever he was doing. "Trish _is_ calling the police, yes?" he said. "These people can't just return to their homes. We can say the kidnappers fled, leaving their prisoners behind. Fewer explanations that way."

"You're worried about explanations?" Jessica spat.

"Would you rather be questioned by the police at length about an alien invasion, or leave these people here for an extra ten minutes?" Kilgrave asked. He didn't seem to expect an answer, but Jessica was prepared anyway.

"I'd rather not put them through anymore than they've already been through," she said.

"You can't expect us to just leave them here," Luke jumped in.

"Doctor," Jack groaned again.

"Fine, Jack, I'll give you a scalpel," Kilgrave muttered. "No guns, no guns."

"No guns," Jack agreed, faintly.

Jessica pulled Carrie free of the cage and her IV. "Wait here," she said to the girl, who only stared up at her with glassy, unfocused eyes. Jessica was sure Jack had to have been joking when he'd asked Kilgrave to kill him, but Kilgrave didn't seem to be _taking_ it as a joke. And in whatever mood this was, this weirdly-old-him mood, she wasn't going to take any chances.

Maybe she would have to knock him out again.

When she caught up with him at Jack's table, he was busy undoing Jack's restraints. "I'm not going to do this for you, Jack," Kilgrave was saying. "You can't ask me to do this." He pressed a scalpel into Jack's palm.

"Woah, woah," Jessica interjected. She pried the scalpel away from Jack, who wouldn't have been strong enough to resist her even if she'd had normal human strength. "What the fuck do you think you're doing?"

"Long story," Jack rasped. "Doctor-"

"I'm not," Kilgrave snapped. "Jessica-"

"Stop saying my name," Jessica ordered. He looked up at her, into her eyes for the first time in a while, and in his she saw a swirl of darkness, of the kind she'd hoped to never see again. Her entire body went numb with horror.

He took the scalpel from her, but he'd gotten rid of it somehow by the time she roused herself enough to punch him.

He went down after a cracking noise, hitting the floor with a wheeze and a thud, skidding almost two feet. Jessica smelled blood. Realized she hadn't been holding back when she'd hit him.

Beran and the kidnappers were still cleaning up the prisoners, but Luke paused to turn and look. When his eyes settled on Kilgrave, now curled on the floor, he stilled. Jessica tried to ground herself in the moment. She checked her watch. She tried to ignore Kilgrave's silence. Trish would call the police in less than a minute.

Behind her, there came the sickening sound of a blade entering flesh, and then of Jack sucking in a breath.

"Shit," Jessica blurted. She spun around quickly enough to make her head spin. Jack's eyes had rolled back in his head again, the scalpel dropping from his hand the second he'd pulled it free from his chest. And then all she could see was blood. She tried, in vain, to press on the wound, while Jack clumsily, with increasing lack of coordination, pushed at them to make her move away.

Then, his hands dropped entirely away, and he released his last breath.

Some distant part of her mourned. Jack had been a good man, as far as she'd known him. Why the hell he'd decided to…

She closed her eyes, just to give herself a second, then returned to the task at hand, wiping her blood-stained hands on her jeans.

Kilgrave had somehow recovered - though by all accounts, his face should have been _broken_ \- enough to get to his feet, though he leaned heavily on the nearest surface. "Beran," he called, apparently undeterred by Jessica's reaction, "you have thirty seconds to get rid of these drugs."

"I'm trying," Beran shouted back. True to his word, the IVs had all been rounded up, the bags of solutions removed and placed in a bucket. "At least let me take my research," he said. "Tell me you are not cruel enough to steal that from my people, too."

"Keep the research," Kilgrave grunted. He sagged a little where he stood. Beran rushed to the nearest control panel and began typing.

"The hell do you mean, keep the research?" Luke demanded, starting forward.

"It's already done," Kilgrave explained, with a vague wave of the hand. "This is what has to happen." His head suddenly dipped, and he flinched like he'd been struck again.

Jessica jumped as someone gasped behind her, at the exact same moment.

The last thing she expected was to see Jack sitting up, no sign of any injury but for the dried blood on his chest. Her mouth popped open - she tried to speak but nothing but curses would come out.

Luke spat a curse of his own, and as Jessica spun around yet again she saw the kidnappers fading into nothing, as if they'd been dissolved into the air itself.

Kilgrave said, "oh, good," before sinking to the floor.

* * *

 **I ended up condensing chapters 18 and 19, since they were a little too short, so we're now at 20 chapters and an epilogue lol! I really loved writing this chapter, so I hope you guys enjoy reading it! Things are wrapping up now!**

 **As always, thank you for your support! :)**


	19. Chapter 19

**Chapter 19**

Jack pocketed samples of each of the drugs, and with Luke's help flushed the remainder of the evidence down some toilets on the third floor. Just as they had disposed of the last of it, the scream of sirens appeared on the edge of Jack's hearing.

"We need to go," Luke said, before Jack had even opened his mouth. They nearly collided with Jessica and the Doctor in the stairwell - the Doctor looking dazed, with a bruised and steadily bleeding cheek, and Jessica looking furiously worried, her eyebrows drawn together in a way that looked almost painful. She had both hands wrapped tightly around the Doctor's upper arm.

"Trish is waiting downstairs," she told them as they continued their descent. "I'll meet the cops down there, pretend I made the call. I'll meet you back at Trish's apartment." Jack watched her shoot Luke a significant look. _Keep an eye on them_ , it said.

Without a word, Luke nodded.

Jack wondered how long they'd been dating. Back at the apartment, he hadn't been able to decide. He'd guessed a few months. But their ease of communication made it seem like much longer than that.

He pulled his coat tighter around him as the four of them stumbled into the alley that Jessica and the Doctor had apparently entered through, partly because of the chill and partly because he knew the blood would attract unnecessary attention.

Despite his efforts, however, Trish's eyes immediately flew down to his chest and widened in horror. Then, they went to the Doctor's injured face, and widened further.

"Hospital?" she asked, before they'd even entered the vehicle. "Should I call Claire?"

"We're fine," Luke assured her. It was the warmest he'd sounded yet. He helped the Doctor into the backseat, then squeezed himself back there as well. Jack half-collapsed into the passenger side, allowing himself to finally relax.

"I'll call in an hour," Jessica said, and then they were pulling away, so quickly that Trish's tires squealed.

The second they'd rounded the corner, the Doctor sighed. A glance over the shoulder revealed that he'd let his head fall back against the headrest. The wound on his cheek looked uglier now that it had mostly stopped bleeding, even in the dim light of dusk.

"I'll stitch you up back at the apartment," Jack told him.

The Doctor sighed again. "I hate stitches," he complained. "Do we have to do stitches?"

"Yes."

Silence fell over the car again. Trish white-knuckled the wheel, staring straight ahead. Another glance to the backseat showed Luke alternately glancing at the Doctor and the street outside, only once looking to Jack.

"You should be dead," Luke said, eventually.

Jack quirked one side of his mouth upwards. "Well," he began, only pausing as he realized the Doctor had spoken at the same time.

"Both of you," Luke amended.

Trish audibly swallowed. "What happened in there?" she ventured.

The Doctor cleared his throat. "They were children," he explained, quietly. "Misguided, trying to help their families."

"By kidnapping innocent people?" Trish's expression of bewilderment was almost comical. "How the hell does that accomplish anything?"

"Aliens," Jack butted in. The car fell into dangerous silence again. "They were aliens," he finished, more gently. The Doctor huffed.

Trish made a muffled strangled noise. "So we're getting invaded by aliens," she said, with a fairly impressive facade of calm. "Again."

"No invasions." The Doctor reassured, though it fell a little bit flat. There was no real enthusiasm in his voice. Jack's stomach twisted.

"You doing okay, Doc?" he checked, turning in his seat to get a view of the Time Lord. The Doctor was picking at his sleeve, staring out the window in a contemplative way that had Jack feeling a little nervous.

The Doctor hummed noncommittally.

"Doctor," Jack tried again. No response. "I'm going to need an answer from you, because you look like shit, and at this point in time I'm not comfortable letting that slide."

"My face hurts," the Doctor said, flat and reluctant. "I'm tired. Beran reminded me of something. Leave it. Alone."

Jack winced. He couldn't know exactly what Beran had reminded the Doctor of, but he could come up with a few unpleasant ideas. He kept his voice carefully even. "Okay. Hang in there."

Luke's phone buzzed. "They're taking Jessica in for questioning," he reported. "She said it shouldn't take too long, she's not a suspect." He tapped something, presumably the phone, against his leg several times. "When she comes back, you two will have to explain."

Jack wasn't exactly looking forward to that conversation, although he knew it would likely be a relief when it was finally over with. He'd wondered why the Doctor had kept it all a secret for long. He supposed he now truly understood why. Not only would it potentially bring about some unwanted knowledge, but it would be a _lot_ of work. At a certain point, it was easier to lie, potentially causing more pain, than to tell the truth and flip somebody's worldview around entirely. Jack had been there before himself.

When the Doctor didn't answer, Jack was forced to, acquiescing with a quiet "yeah."

Trish managed to find a parking space, and they were forced to make the awkward trek to her apartment building. Jack pulled his coat around him to disguise the blood. The Doctor, ahead of him, had his head ducked, staring at the pavement. Trish walked ahead of them, back stiff, and Luke trailed behind, a watchful guard. They made it into the building, and up into Trish's apartment, without more than a couple strange glances cast in their direction. Jack guessed that they still cast an odd picture, even with the injuries and blood taken out of it. They were all sort of wilted, exhausted in the aftermath of the stress they'd been under. Trish looked like she was expecting someone to jump out at her at any moment. The Doctor wouldn't move his eyes from the ground. Jack didn't have a shirt on. And Luke, though he was putting on a good show of impassiveness, also radiated a bit of anxiety, enough that Jack could pick up on it. The approaching cover of darkness did little to help - only made it look more like they'd been up to something shady.

They all breathed a sigh of relief the second Trish's door closed behind them.

Jack's chest itched. He wanted nothing more than to get into a hot shower and wash the evidence of his latest death away, but the Doctor's wound looked worse the longer he stared at it.

So, instead, he took the Doctor by the wrist, noting the re-aggravated cuts on his hands, and half-dragged him back to the couch.

"Jack," the Doctor said, a half-hearted protest that was immediately ignored. He didn't speak up again as Jack gathered supplies from the small medical bag Claire had left for them.

"Do you mind making us a shake?" Jack asked Luke, as he prepped the needle. The Doctor made a face.

"I'll get it," Trish offered.

"I'm not hungry," the Doctor said, incredibly unconvincingly. Jack ignored him again.

"This is going to hurt," he warned as he ripped open an alcohol wipe. The Doctor closed his eyes as it touched the wound, but nothing more. With the excess blood cleared away, the injury looked a lot more orange-y - more like Time Lord blood than human blood. Jack found that reassuring, but out of the corner of his eye he saw Luke go suddenly very still.

The Doctor did squint a little when Jack started the stitches, but besides that he reacted little. Jack was reminded of other occasions similar to this - most of them had been somewhat more cheerful. Attending to small injuries after an adventure gone a bit rogue, although rarely did those adventures go horribly. Usually, they were all a bit pleased with themselves when they got back to the TARDIS, with a job well done behind them. A few quick bandages, and then tea in the kitchen.

Jack wondered, briefly, if the Doctor was revisiting the same memories.

As they wrapped up the stitching, Trish emerged from the kitchen with the requested shake in hand, and set it on the coffee table. Jack cut the thread and leaned back. "Okay," he said. "Take two big drinks, and then I'll leave you alone."

The Doctor opened his eyes. Jack's heart dropped at the dullness he saw there. "I'm getting tired of being ordered around, Jack."

"I don't see you stepping up to the plate to take care of yourself," Jack countered. "Until you do that, I'm gonna be doing a bit of ordering." He nudged the Doctor with his elbow. "Don't pretend you don't like the attention."

The Doctor seemed to contemplate this for a moment, before slowly reaching out and taking the shake. Luke was still completely still. So much so that Jack did a double-take to check that he was still breathing.

Trish caught onto the problem as well. "Luke, what's wrong?"

Jack cleared his throat, before gently picking up the discarded alcohol wipe from the coffee table, smeared with half-dried blood, turned very obviously orange now that it was no longer so concentrated, and very obviously moved it a little bit closer to Trish.

The Doctor swallowed his gulp of shake before whispering, " _Jack_."

"You can't avoid this forever," Jack said. He squeezed the Doctor's hand, ripped open another wipe to clean it. "It's time."

"...You're kidding," Trish said, finally. Gears could practically be seen turning behind her eyes.

The Doctor slowly, cautiously, looked up at her. Jack spotted something like hope in his eyes.

"Kilgrave was, er," the Doctor began, before faltering a little. Trish tensed. "Kilgrave, well, he was human, yes?"

Jack finished his task just in time to see Trish and Luke exchange a worried look.

"Mostly," Luke replied.

Jack set the used wipe on the coffee table. "Mostly?" he prompted. His heart did an odd jump in his chest. He didn't believe the Doctor was Kilgrave - couldn't believe it, in any part of him - but _mostly_ didn't exactly bode well. And he could see the Doctor tensing.

Trish swallowed. "He was mutated," she explained. "He had-"

It was at that moment that the door opened, and Jessica stepped into the apartment, bringing the chill of the day with her, and a new silence to the room. She instantly, visibly, took stock of the situation. Jack watched her, over the back of the couch, and saw her face darken. "Everything okay?"

"We're fine," Trish assured her, though her voice wavered.

The Doctor cleared his throat. "How many hearts did he have?" he asked.

"Who?" Jessica demanded.

"Kilgrave," the Doctor snapped back. Jack put a hand on his shoulder. This time it wasn't brushed off.

Jessica paused. "One," she said, obviously confused. "He had a virus, that mutated him, but besides that, and the fact that he was fucking crazy, he was normal."

Jack grabbed the shake before the Doctor dropped it, and set it on the coffee table.

"Did he have a fob watch?" Jack asked, before the Doctor could. "A pocket watch," he clarified, at the confused expressions that greeted him. "Probably would have had some weird markings on the back, carved into it." He drew interlocking circles in the air, crude Gallifreyan.

"Uh," Jessica said. Everyone stared at her but the Doctor, who still had his back to her. "No, I never saw one."

"I would have kept it hidden," the Doctor muttered. "Not in plain sight, not unless I was _trying_ to get myself found out." Louder, he pressed, "His parents, did they have one? Did they ever mention-"

"There was no watch, as far as I know," Jessica interrupted. "Never saw it, never heard about it. What the hell is going on?" She glared at all of them individually, hunting for answers. They all just stared back at her. Jack searched for something to say, but he couldn't find the right words. The heady warmth of relief surged through him, and he put his head in his hands for a moment. The Doctor's breath hitched.

It was Luke who finally spoke.

"You aren't Kilgrave," he said, slowly, as if the words were being dragged out of him. It sounded painful, and horrified, and disbelieving all at once. "Are you?"

* * *

 **We've finally made it to the reveal! I hope it met your expectations! :)**

 **There's only one more chapter left, and then the epilogue. It feels like so long ago that I started this story, and to be almost done with it is so crazy to me. I'm glad you've all been enjoying, and as always I appreciate the support you've shown me throughout this story. It means a lot.**

 **This is coming a little late lol, since the story is almost done, but I do have a playlist that I've been using as writing inspiration. If any of you would be interested in seeing some of those songs, let me know and I'll be happy to post them at the end of the next chapter, or maybe the epilogue. :) There aren't too many of them, but I've listened to most of them heavily and so they had a pretty sizable influence on how I wrote the story, or even just specific scenes. So they might enhance certain chapters, or the story as a whole, idk.**

 **Either way, thanks for reading! Sorry about the late update today, I had a busy day. Please tell me what you think! :))))**


	20. Chapter 20

**Chapter 20**

The world dropped from under Jessica's feet, leaving her scrabbling for some sort of purchase.

"You-what-Luke, look at him!" she exclaimed. "Who else-"

"He's not human," Luke interjected. He sounded shaken. Jessica opened her mouth, though she had no idea what the fuck she was meant to say, but Luke started off again before she could make a sound. "The drug wore off too fast, that was our first clue that something was wrong. And the fact that its effects were different from what you saw in other people. We noticed, but we didn't know what to do with the information we had. We didn't pay enough attention. More than anything else, though, he should have _broken_ when you hit him like you did," he began. "My wife _died_ because of a hit like that, Jessica." The room fell silent. That old, familiar guilt pierced Jessica's chest, for a moment halting her breathing. Although she knew Luke would deny it, she still found some residual anger in his eyes. That hurt more than anything else. "You punched him," Luke continued, slightly more calmly, "into the floor. Full strength, or nearly. I thought I saw dents there. But he's bruised, and nothing more."

"Might have broken a rib or two," Kilgrave muttered. Jessica hardly heard him over the rush of blood in her ears.

"Doctor!" Jack cried. "What the _hell?"_ He started searching through Claire's small bag. "We have to tape those, you-"

Jessica shook her head. What at, she wasn't sure. She sucked in a breath, fought to ignore the spots in her vision. She was exhausted. Maybe she was imagining this. Maybe she'd collapsed the moment she'd entered Trish's apartment and this was all a weird dream.

"He knew how to talk to those aliens," Luke went on. "He was spouting off all these terms I've never heard before in my life, but they knew exactly what he meant. And they were afraid of him. Not to mention that Jack should be dead, too."

"I was dead," Jack put in. "Didn't stick."

"Maybe his powers turned into something else," Jessica tried, throwing her hands into the air for a lack of anything better. " _Look_ at him, Luke. Please."

"I am," Luke insisted, voice going deep and gruff. "And yes, he looks like Kilgrave. I want to believe it's him, that's what my eyes are telling me. But I-" He cut himself off. Swallowed.

Although Jack was attempting to get at Kilgrave's midsection, attempting to remove his suit jacket, Kilgrave wasn't moving. Just sat with his head in his hands, entirely still.

"I have two hearts," he said, eventually. Jessica closed her eyes. Emotion bled from her, at once, leaving her shaky and cold and hollow. "I'm not human."

"Why did you pretend?" Trish asked. Her voice cracked as she continued. "Why let us keep you locked up in Jessica's apartment for so long? You could have just _lead with that_. What you just said. Why did you-why do that to us?"

Jack gave up on his task, leaning back. His lips thinned, right before Kilgrave said, "I'm a coward, Trish. That's all there is to it."

"I guess so," Jessica whispered. The words didn't feel like her own.

"There was a chance, anyway," Kilgrave went on. "There's still a chance that he's me."

Jack sighed. "Doctor."

"Just because she didn't see a Chameleon Arch doesn't mean it wasn't there," he said, louder. "I do look like him, Jack. We all know I do."

"You look like you," Jack replied.

"That doesn't mean anything," Kilgrave said. "I can look like anybody."

"Jessica, come sit down," Trish invited, in a voice that sounded almost pleading. But Jessica found that her feet wouldn't move until Trish came over and pulled her to a chair herself. She did feel better with some support under her, but her heart wouldn't settle.

Jack scrubbed a hand down his face. He was still bloody, Jessica noted. "If you're set to believe that you're a rapist-murderer-whatever else then I guess I can't stop you," he growled. "God forbid you be _wrong_ , Doctor. Even about this."

Kilgrave sat up straight, and then stood, in one clean motion. His face was expressionless, but his eyes _burned_. "I'm hardly a saint, Jack," he said, entirely too calmly. Jessica clenched a hand around the arm of Trish's chair, and the wood crunched in her grip. "You don't know what happened on Mars," the Doctor said. "I used to doubt the reach of what I could do, but I don't anymore." Jessica tasted bile.

He sounded like Kilgrave. He sounded exactly like Kilgrave. Everyone seemed to have stopped breathing, frozen in place.

"I learned my lesson on Bowie Base One," he continued, with a finality that clenched around Jessica's chest. "I started off here wanting to figure out who Kilgrave was and what he did, and if I was responsible, but that turned into me hiding from that lesson." He paused. Jessica watched him clench a hand into a fist, then slowly release it. "Like I told Beran. I have to do what I have to do. Unless I want to destroy Time itself, I'm beholden to it. No matter how dark the path it leads me down is."

He looked up, locked eyes with Jessica. The burning was still there, but joined now by a pain as dark and helpless and furious as Jessica felt herself. "I'm sorry, Jessica Jones," he said. "I'm so, so sorry."

Jack stood, grabbing the Doctor by the lapels. "No," he snarled, "Doctor, don't even suggest that you really-"

"This is the last time you'll see me, I think," the Doctor interrupted. Jack stopped cold. His hands fell down, though they stayed wound in the suit jacket. "This me," the Doctor clarified. Jessica tried to make sense of that, and couldn't. She stood, preparing herself to hold him back, but froze in her tracks as he reached up, grabbed Jack's face, and kissed him.

It ended quickly, with the Doctor pulling back within seconds with something like pain on his face. "For old time's sake," he whispered. Jack's jaw clenched, and his throat worked.

"Thank you," he said back, finally.

The Doctor smiled a dead-eyed smile, winked, and then vaulted over the back of the couch and out the door, only barely escaping the grasping arms attempting to stop him.

In the two seconds it took Jessica to barrel into the hallway, he had already gone.

* * *

There was a lot of yelling. At Jack, mostly, who bore the brunt of their anger with remarkably good grace, although he was clearly upset himself.

He explained, enough so that they'd understand. When they asked questions, he answered. The water became both less muddy, and incredibly more so.

"The Doctor is a Time Lord," Jack said. "A time traveller. He didn't do the things Kilgrave did, and I don't think he ever will. I can't think that. But there is - to him, at least - the possibility that he could. Your past, his future."

Meaning he could be off to go become Kilgrave right now. And do the things he'd done to Jessica, and Malcolm, and Luke, and everyone else his voice had reached.

Jessica threw up, around that time.

She'd let him go. He was gone. He was going to do it to her again, and this time it really _was_ her fault.

She kept that part to herself, though, knowing Trish in particular would freak out if she were to voice it. Jack took a shower, and changed back into his collar-less shirt. Trish and Luke cleaned up the apartment together, for a lack of anything else. Jessica brushed her teeth and numbly gathered her things.

She wanted to ask Jack how he wasn't dead, but in the aftermath of everything else she couldn't think about it anymore. It wasn't the weirdest thing she'd ever seen, anyway.

The sun was starting to rise by the time she headed back home. Jack walked beside her, his hands in his pockets and his eyes on the sidewalk.

"If he's thorough," he said, right when she was about to ask him what the hell he thought he was doing, following her, "he'll have come back for anything he left at your place. But I should probably still check."

It made enough sense. She suspected that he didn't want to go back to wherever he'd come from either, and put an end to this entire fucked up thing. Ending it meant there was nothing more to do. She wasn't sure she was ready to accept that herself. It felt too much like letting Kilgrave win, and that was a feeling she was keen to avoid if at all possible.

So maybe she didn't want him to leave yet, either.

"Fine," she said. They continued walking, absorbed by the sounds of the city bustling around them. Jessica tried to feel something besides frustration and fear and sadness, but the only other option was apathy, and she didn't want that either. She was tired of it all.

She glanced up, hoping for some break in the clouds, some hint of blue sky to offer up a little bit of hope, but she found nothing but gray.

Maybe she expected her apartment building to look inviting - it didn't. It was as dark and dingy as ever, with the same shady characters hovering around in their same shady spots. She tried to enjoy the familiarity, if nothing else, but couldn't.

The stairs creaked with every step as she and Jack climbed them. She heard shouting down the hall. Normal, everyday things that now did nothing but scrape at her. She thought about turning back now, but they were already here.

They were already approaching her door.

"Alias Investigations," Jack read. "I don't think you told me you were a PI."

"Yeah," Jessica replied. "Well. I am."

He huffed something of a laugh. "A good one, I assume?"

"The best in Hell's Kitchen," Jessica promised, though the words felt wooden in her mouth. They didn't feel quite as true as they had before. She should have known about the Doctor. She shouldn't have been so blinded by her own terror and anger that she forgot how to do her goddamn job. She forcefully swallowed down the poisonous thoughts, unlocked the door, and pushed it open.

A giant blue box sat in her living room, over by her desk, which had somehow lost its lamp to the floor, and a majority of the papers on it. The windows of the box glowed with a warm, yellowed light. Over the doors Jessica read the words _POLICE PUBLIC CALL BOX._

The kitchen light was on. A tea kettle whistled.

* * *

 **Whew. Fair warning, this is going to be a long AN lol.**

 **Thank you all sososo much for making writing and posting this story so fun and amazing. I really think the process of doing this has made me a better writer, and the feedback and support you've all given was of course a huge part of that. I hope the end result is as rewarding to you as it is to me.**

 **There is still one more update to go, the epilogue. However, this chapter here is pretty much the end of _Gray_ , for all intents and purposes.**

 **The epilogue does provide some more closure than this chapter, and it could easily be viewed as the end of this story as well. But, er...it's not. It leads directly into something else.**

 **That is to say, there's a sequel. Whoops!**

 **I just enjoyed writing this story so much that I couldn't let it end here. There was too much left to say by the end, and too many loose ends between all the characters for me to tie up as neatly as I wanted without doing weird stuff with pacing and cramming too much into a last chapter or two. It would have been a lot, and probably not very good. I thought about it, but it didn't feel right for the characters or the story.**

 **So if any of you are interested in that...I'll be posting the epilogue later today or tomorrow, because both this chapter and the epilogue are too short for me to feel good about posting them a week apart lol. And I'm way too excited for you guys to read the epilogue to wait that long if I'm being honest!**

 **There was some interest in seeing the songs I talked about last week, so here are the major ones: Stockholm Syndrome by Muse (this was a huge one. lyrics are A+), Let it Happen by Tame Impala (just a good writing song tbh, but also lyrically it works p well also), and Miracle Mile by Cold War Kids (for pretty much the same reason). :)**

 **I'll talk more about the sequel in the AN when I post the epilogue, but for now I'll just tell you that it's called _Gold_. :)**

 **Thanks for reading!**


	21. Epilogue

**Epilogue**

Jessica looked to Jack, heart thundering in her ears, and found a slow, disbelieving grin spreading over his face. It didn't do much to settle her nerves.

"Oh, hello!" an unfamiliar voice called from the kitchen. British, fairly young-ish, _way_ too cheerful for someone who was breaking and entering. "Wasn't sure when you'd be back, so I made some tea. Hope you don't mind."

Jack's grin widened. Jessica opened her mouth to start yelling - questions or curses or something in between, she wasn't sure - right as the owner of the voice emerged into the living room.

He was pretty young, as she'd guessed. Late twenties, maybe very early thirties. Big chin, floppy brown hair. Questionable fashion decisions. Jessica was confused and pissed, but not much more - incapable of feeling much more - before her eyes locked on the mug in his hand and she stopped cold in her tracks.

It was the same chipped, somehow-perpetually-stained mug Kilgrave - or, the Doctor - had always liked to use.

"Long time, no see, Jessica Jones," the stranger said, and leaned on the doorway. "I don't want to be rude. But you look a little off. Am I allowed to call you Jessica now? I should have asked before." He ducked his head a little, pretending to peer into the mug.

"No hello for me?" Jack asked.

The man smiled, looking up again with sparkling eyes. "Hello, Jack. I _just_ saw you."

Jack beamed. "Did you."

Jessica blinked, tried to find something to say. Anything. She settled on, "what the fuck?"

"Eloquent," the man said. "Tea, anyone? There's still water left."

"I'm good," Jessica snapped. As she'd done to Kilgrave, time and time again. This whole thing felt surreal. She tried to will herself out of this dream, or whatever the hell it was. "Does anyone want to explain?"

"Yes!" the main exclaimed. "Hold on." He vanished into the kitchen again, and returned without the mug. "Proper introduction, as we should have had, hm?" A warm smile settled on his face as he extended a hand to her. "Hello, Jessica Jones. Nice to meet you. I'm the Doctor."

She ignored the greeting, too busy attempting to sort out her thoughts. "How?" was all she could come up with.

He dropped the hand, seemingly unbothered. "Time Lord trick," he explained, all too cheerfully. "Instead of dying, you can just _whoosh_ , get a new body instead. Except not quite like that. Replace _whoosh_ with a bit of screaming, maybe-"

"Why did you come back?" Jack asked. "It's been a pretty long time for you, hasn't it?"

The man who Jessica _supposed_ was the Doctor shrugged, leaned against the doorway again. "I visited you, a few odd days ago for me, I think a few weeks for you, and it occurred to me that it was about that time that I met Jessica. And when I thought of that I, of course, gave you my psychic paper - which I want back, by the way - so you would get my message, and wind up here. Now. And, er, it sort of _also_ occurred to me that we left off on a bit of a bad note. And I owed you a ride home, since that hunk of garbage you insist on keeping around stopped working." Another smile appeared, this one a little more hesitant despite its mischievous edge. "And maybe a bit more than a ride home."

It was impossible to miss how Jack straightened up. "Really?"

Back into the kitchen the man went, and when he came back this time he had the mug again, and took a sip. "Yeah, of course. I'm not unreasonable. And, y'know, you helped me out a bit. As always." He paused, sipped again. "For old time's sake," he said.

Jack's mouth quirked up. "You're sure?"

"If you're worried about the TARDIS, she'll be fine," the man claiming to be the Doctor said with a wave of his hand. "Despite everything, she's taken a fondness to you after all this time."

"It's hard not to," Jack teased. "I'm very charming."

"Ianto's invited, too," the man added. "Good man, Ianto is. Needs a bit more _excitement_ in his life though, in my opinion."

"We have enough excitement," Jack said. "Promise to keep things relatively safe?"

"You say that as if I don't try!" the Doctor exclaimed, not quite sounding offended.

"I know you get bored," Jack countered. "None of that while he's on board. He's less, well-"

"Immortal, got it," the Doctor finished. "Fine, fine. We'll stick to mostly-safe places. I'll keep it mortal, normal-human friendly." He took another sip, and then turned expectant green eyes on Jessica. "What about you, Jessica Jones?"

She blinked at him. "What about me?"

"You can bring Trish, of course," the Doctor went on, "and Luke is welcome as well. Claire, if she's interested. I'd invite Malcolm, but I don't know him nearly as well. He might not be comfortable. But if you'd like him to come along I'd be open to that. He'd get along with Rory, I was just thinking of how similar they are."

"I mean," she interrupted, before he could babble on anymore, "what are you asking?"

He closed his mouth, and seemed to think for a moment, as if he himself wasn't quite sure. Or maybe he was just considering his word choice. His eyes roved the room, lingering for a moment on the paper-littered desk. "Would you fancy coming on a trip, Jessica?"

"Where?"

"Anywhere." He grinned, his attention snapping back to her. "Anywhen. Declar VII in the 34th century, Juno in 2057, America in 1776." He spread his free hand suggestively. "Wherever you'd like."

"Are you Kilgrave?" The words came of their own accord, unable to be restrained any longer.

The smile dropped. She thought, for a moment, he would drop his mug. The two of them stared at each other, Jack hovering uncertainly nearby. The longer the silence went on, the more Jessica was sure that she would throw up again, although she didn't have anything left in her stomach.

"No," he said. His eyes were glinting with what she thought might be tears. He smiled, just a little bit. "I'm not. Never was, never ended up…" he took a deep breath. "It haunted me until the day I died, Jessica Jones." He glanced at the desk again, and the fallen lamp, quickly, maybe attempting to be furtive. He turned his eyes down to peer at the contents of the mug as if looking for something inside it. "But I'm still sorry. I should have...I'm still a coward. I was, er, in a somewhat vulnerable place when we met. For several reasons, but one of them being that I was rather afraid of myself." He finally met her eyes again, still smiling that tiny smile. "Seeing a man with my face doing terrible things sort of aggravated that. I let fear control me, and that hurt you. And Trish, and Luke, and...er. Everyone, really. And I'm so terribly sorry."

Jessica was not one for crying, but her throat was suspiciously tight.

"That was the most coherent, _real_ apology that I have ever heard come out of your mouth," Jack said. He sounded so genuinely impressed that Jessica almost laughed in disbelief, despite herself. "Any of your mouths."

The Doctor shot him a glare. "Shove off, Jack. You're as bad as River. You can't even let me give Jessica a nice apology without spoiling it by trying to be clever. I am _trying_ , you know. Never let it be said that I can't learn from my mistakes!" He held a finger in the air to punctuate this point.

Jack grinned. He raised his hands in surrender. "Okay, fair enough. But I'll be expecting some more like that in the future. No more getting out of feelings talks."

" _Jack_ ," the Doctor complained. "Please."

He did seem genuinely uncomfortable, which only made Jessica's throat clench up again. It appeared that he really had made an effort. Maybe that shouldn't have meant much, and she still smarted with fury, but it did mean a little bit.

He was trying to make it right.

"Yes," she said.

Jack stopped in the middle of whatever he'd been saying (which Jessica had tuned out), and looked at her in surprise and a hopeful light in his eyes. "What?"

"Yes," she repeated. The Doctor was _beaming_. "I'll come on a trip."

Eyes sparkling, the Doctor cried, "Great! Lovely! Wonderful!" He set his mug down in the kitchen and practically danced out. And then, to her surprise, he hugged her.

"Sorry," he said, once he'd pulled back only a split second later. His eyes had gone wide. "Don't let me, er, do that. If you don't want me to."

Jessica nodded. He let go of her shoulders, and stepped back as if it had never happened.

"I'm sorry, too," she ground out, just as he was turning to talk to Jack. He paused in place, before slowly rotating himself back to face her.

"Don't be," he said.

"I should have paid more attention," she continued, despite his increasingly uncomfortable expression. "Instead of assuming. Or, I don't know. Something."

He almost smiled. "Don't be sorry," he repeated. "I won't even hear of it!"

She was all too relieved to let it slide, though something dark and unhappy settled itself in her stomach. She attempted a smile, and it must have come out well, because he just smiled back at her, wider than before.

"We're going to have a full house!" he exclaimed. "Who's all coming?"

"I think Luke and Trish," Jessica said. She could hardly believe this was happening. "It sounds like this might be dangerous."

The Doctor shrugged one shoulder. "It, er. Can be." He and Jack exchanged a look. "I'll keep the running to a minimum. Might be a lot of lazy days in the TARDIS for us. Not necessarily a bad thing, you know, I have a bit of cleaning to get done that I've been putting off."

"Still," Jessica said. "I've already involved Claire and Malcolm in enough."

Jack nodded. "If you ever want to invite them, we can," he said. Then, he smiled a little. "They don't even have to know you left without them, if you want. Or that you left at all."

"Time machine," the Doctor reminded. "You won't even miss any cases!"

Jessica couldn't help but grin a little. "I guess not."

The Doctor gestured grandly toward the blue box. "Well then, shall we head off? Trish's apartment next, I presume?"

" _This_ is your time machine?" Jessica checked, stealing a glance at the box. "We're all supposed to fit in that?"

The Doctor smirked. "Looks can be deceiving."

Jessica supposed she had nothing to say to that. She looked at Jack, who was smiling with more genuine happiness than she'd seen on his face since she'd met him.

The Doctor opened the door, and the gray of the early morning that filled the living room was washed out by the warm glow of orange-tinted golden light.

* * *

 _to be continued..._

* * *

 **I just want to thank you all again for being so great. I've had so much fun with this story, and I'm glad that you all seem to have liked it (at least up to this point). I can't express how grateful I am for your support and feedback over these past 20-ish weeks. It's been so awesome.**

 **So...thank you! I've loved writing this story so, so much. I'm sad it's over. But it's not quite the end!**

 **I hope you'll all join me in moving on to the next installment of this ongoing adventure in _Gold_ , which I expect to start posting in a month or so. I have a bit of work left to do on it, but I'm hoping it won't be too long. When I have a better time estimate, I'll update my profile and let you know. :)**

 **If you want to know more about _Gold_ , here is some info:**

 **The chapters will, generally speaking, tend to be a little longer. They'll be titled, and will have some new POVs that I haven't used before. It's a different setup than _Gray_ , or any of my other stories for that matter. It'll kind of be a series of one-shots that interconnect into a larger story/story arc. So while most of the chapters generally connect to a main storyline, some of them take detours to explore different things that aren't necessarily integral to the story as a whole, but which will (hopefully) provide a break from the more intense parts of the story. Most of the chapters could be able to act as standalone one-shots, especially towards the beginning, hence the titles.**

 ** _Gold_ in general will be more hopeful and positive than _Gray_ , although there are some dark moments and a particularly depressing section of a few chapters toward the end. I don't want to give too much away.**

 **But if you're looking for some cheesy space adventures, witty banter, good ol' h/c (with a bit more emphasis on the c this time), and the cautiously-forming friendships between a bunch of strange people, _Gold_ is where you will find it.**

 **Thank you all again. Your support means the world. I hope you're as excited for the sequel as I am. I hope this ending to _Gray_ was a good one. Thank you.**


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